


And I'll Form the Heart

by wayfared



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), M/M, Mutual Pining, Writer Keith (Voltron), alcohol use, as usual! don't know what to tag! why is this so difficult!, for the Klance Pinefest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 65,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayfared/pseuds/wayfared
Summary: “I bet you you can,” he hums. “I bet you I could get you to fall in love before the end of the semester and write the best romance between two space explorers the world has ever seen.”Keith narrows his eyes. This is devious Lance. Lance with a plan. He’s not fond of this Lance.“Paladins,” Keith says. “And no.”“In fact,” Lance continues like Keith hadn’t said anything at all, “I’m the perfect person to be your guide to falling in love. They don’t call me Loverboy Lance for nothing!”Lance offering to be Keith’s wingman in his quest to fall in love before the end of the semester is a horrible idea. Keith tells his annoying new roommate so up front. But Lance insists, because Keith’s got a failed romance to fix in his novel,Voltron: Legendary Defenders, and Lance is just the guy to fix it. Don’t worry—this willtotallyend well.





	1. Mega Thrusters are Go!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was my very first Klance fic idea, conceived almost a year ago when my sister said, "I can tell from your writing that you've never fallen in love," and I thought damn... I'm not gonna fall in love, but that sounds like a great fic idea. AIFTH is drafts upon drafts in the making and the combined effort of not only me, but cherished friends and support. 
> 
> Thank you to the Pinefest chat for sprinting and discussing and generally being absolutely incredible. Thank you to Ly, Colleen, Kay for being the rubber duckies that gave me the breakthroughs this fic needed to finish. Thank you so much to Voido for saving my ass as a beta. Like, seriously, I owe you my first born. Thank you to the Happychat for all the love and support and excitement. And thank you especially to Kay, because signing up for the Pinefest brought me to the Happychat and to so many friends and fics. If you'd never decided to put on this event, I'd be without you guys. 
> 
> AND thank you to my incredible artist, Dex Totesunrepentant! [Here is the link to their first piece](https://totesunrepentant.tumblr.com/post/184420724805/and-ill-form-the-heart-by), and [here is the link to the second](https://totesunrepentant.tumblr.com/post/184420734980/and-ill-form-the-heart-by-voltronseatbelts)! Thank you for your hard work and your talent. The scenes you chose make me squeal and it's so, so cool to see them in art form. 
> 
> Here is my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/), here is my [personal post for this fic](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/184424970261/and-ill-form-the-heart), and here is the [Klance Pinefest post](https://klancepinefest.tumblr.com/post/184424550289/title-and-ill-form-the-heart-author-max). Stop by and chat! 
> 
> If Love Song in C Minor is my baby, this is my second born. This has been a long journey, and I'm beyond excited and nervous to post it. I hope you enjoy And I'll Form the Heart!

Keith’s leg bounces nervously. It’s not that he wants it to bounce, but in times of crisis, it bounces.

Like right now, sitting across from an overly large mahogany desk in the windowless office of his professor. It bounces. His brain focuses on the action, the _up_ _down,_ as he stares at the puke-yellow crushed velvet of a high back office chair. If you can call it an office chair.

The professor in question hums as the chair slowly creaks around to the front. He strokes his plush orange mustache and stares at the title page of the stack of papers in his hand, his squinty eyes reading the same words over again. Keith’s leg jiggles faster. Up, down. Up down. Why is Professor Coran just staring at his title page? It’s not like it provides any new information.

_Voltron: Legendary Defenders_

_By_

_Keith Kogane_

_Approx. 64,000 words_

“Hmm…” he says, twisting his mustache into a point and letting go, only for it to snap back into its bushy form. “Hmm!”

Keith slaps a hand over his knee and stills his leg. Coran’s eyes leave the paper and track the movement, then snap to Keith’s carefully arranged blank expression.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Keith,” he begins, setting the manuscript on the desk. “But it’s a little…childish.”

The nerves under Keith’s skin balloon into an inferno and he looks away sharply, towards the bobblehead of a strange, unrecognizable creature on the corner of the desk.  

“It’s a very original idea. I was pleasantly surprised with the dialogue and your grasp of story structure.” He pauses and flips through another shorter stack of papers to his left, landing on a page of angry red notes. “Excellent use of foreshadowing, and the metaphor of, er, forming Voltron to show teamwork is clever. Of course, your attentiveness during lectures and outstanding grades on homework already told me that.”

“Thank you,” Keith forces out, because Shiro would give him a disappointed look if he didn’t thank his professors. “But it is a children’s book. So, you know. Childish.”

“But I never would have expected you of all my students to submit a manuscript about…transforming mechanical lions in space! It’s absurd.”

“They’re spaceships. I mean, they’re lions, but they’re also spaceships. In space,” Keith mutters. This critique is not going how he planned. He tightens the grip on his knee again.

“I understand that part. There’s, er, five paladins, and they somehow find a blue mechanical lion, meet aliens for the first time, find other lions of different colors, and form a bigger mechanical man—who has lion heads for hands and feet.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “That’s what it is.”

Coran leans forward and twirls his mustache again, squinting with bewilderment at Keith.

“I’m just so curious how all these ideas fit into your head,” he says, “and you never considered that the lion man doesn’t have opposable thumbs.”

Keith blinks.

“Um,” he stutters.

“Tell me, Keith. Does the lion man have opposable thumbs?”

“I guess it doesn’t.”

“See, you’re not thinking these things through! It’s just unrealistic. The spaceships are lions. The lion man doesn’t have opposable thumbs. The aliens still look like humans. And the worst part, Keith. Do you know what the worst part is?”

Keith gulps and glances away again.

“Mechanical lions, I can stomach. But the _romance!_ Your romance between the blue paladin and the princess is beyond unrealistic.” Coran throws his hands up and twirls the office chair, the revolving puke color mimicking the current actions of Keith’s stomach.

Keith’s jaw drops and he immediately snaps it shut, assuming his previous blank stare.

“The romance?”

“I don’t have many students who want to write young adult science fiction, Keith. I understand they don’t have a large capacity for red roses and chocolate hearts. But this romance is not going to sell to even elementary school children!”

Keith’s rabbiting heart stills, then sinks to the bottom of Professor Coran’s office and into the dirt below. He furrows his eyebrows and curls his hands into fists, nerves lurching in his stomach.

“The romance, Coran?” he asks, just to make sure.

“Yes! The romance! This, this thing you have shoehorned into the text as if a romance is an obligation you loathe to fulfill.”

“But that isn’t—that’s not even the _focus_ of the story,” Keith protests, sitting straight in the chair.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Coran tuts. “Keith, I have a question for you.”

Keith retains his eye roll and nods. Coran folds his hands under his chin and leans forward, his moustache curving with a dreamy smile.

“Have you ever fallen in love?”

Wait. What the fuck? The nerves under Keith’s skin morph into fury, and his leg no longer feels like bouncing.

“What does that have to do with this?” he asks.

“Just answer the question, Keith. Have you ever fallen in love?”

“…No, not really,” he replies reluctantly.

“Not even in high school? Never anything that was a little more than a crush? Someone you went to prom with, perhaps.”

“I didn’t go to prom.” Keith crosses his arms. “Again, what does this have to do with my book?”

Instead of replying, Coran claps his hands in delight.

“Ah! There’s your problem!” he cries out. “I’ve never read a more unrealistic, trope-y, and cringe-worthy romance between two flat characters, and it’s because you don’t even know what a romance is like!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Keith interrupts. Coran waves his comment away.

“This is a pitiful romance, Keith, and if you want to sell to a wide audience—for an audience at all—it must be a _realistic_ romance.” Keith opens his mouth again, but Coran barrels on as he uncaps a pen and grabs a blank piece of paper. “Here’s your homework for _Voltron_. First, figure out how to give the lion man opposable thumbs. How will the lion man do anything without a thumb?”

“The lion’s tee—”

“Second, step away from your vintage hipster typewriter or clunky old laptop and find a nice young person with which to fall in love.”

“I don’t need to fall in love,” Keith huffs. “It’s not a story about a romance, it’s about—”

“To truly write a story with complex, deep characters who experience relatable emotions, Keith, you need to experience these emotions yourself.”

He thrusts the paper ceremoniously towards Keith, who practically crumples it with his fist when he takes it. As he scans the words, fury begins to blur his sight. Who does Coran think he is? Keith’s never cared for love or the baggage it brings. He doesn’t need it to write a damn story, and he sure as hell doesn’t need it for middle grade science fiction.

“Professor Coran,” Keith tries again, the anger seeping into the edges of his tone. “I’m not going to ‘fall in love’ because of a romance problem in a first draft. Just tell me what’s wrong with it and I’ll fix it.”

This time, Coran smiles gently and only brushes through the hairs of his moustache.

“If you plan on passing my class and finishing a degree in creative writing, you need to heed my instructions. This is your homework. Shimmy with a stranger! Go on a disastrous first date, then a brilliant second one! Stare into their eyes in a crowded coffee shop and realize they’re the only one you see. Fall in love, Keith.”

“But, Coran—”

“This reminds me of my youth. Ah, I was once like you. Well, not quite like you. I had a million relationships in high school and college! Oh, Adrian truly could shimmy. He wasn’t a stranger after that.” He stares wistfully into the corner of the office, then starts with a blink. “Now, leave my office! I don’t want to see you in our next class. It’s time I give you a zero on an assignment because you’ll be too busy nursing a hangover and _living._ ”

He spins the chair again and Keith is left gaping at the velvet high back, listening to Coran’s increasingly annoying humming. His eyes flicker between the paper, the chair, and the bobblehead.

“Are you still there?” Coran’s voice booms in the tiny office, but he doesn’t turn around. “I said good day!”

“What the fuck,” Keith mumbles under his breath, but he stands up all the same. As he heaves his backpack over his shoulder and backs away, Coran’s humming grows louder. “Good day?”

“Good day!” Coran repeats.

Keith opens the heavy wooden door and walks out backwards, incredulous expression trained on the feet Coran props up on the wall.

With a frustrated sigh, he lets the office door shut, enveloping him in the equally suffocating silence of the corridor. He looks at the paper in his hands. Only two notes for a session on literally his entire manuscript. Give the lion man opposable thumbs…

And fall in love.

“What the fuck,” Keith says again, louder this time. The corridor doesn’t reply. “What the actual fuck.”

 

. . .

 

_Slam._

Keith drops his backpack onto the floor near the front door and makes a beeline for the shared kitchenette, outrage clouding his brain and barely letting him take in his surroundings.

“Hey, buddy—whoa! Watch the goods!” a voice cuts through the fog, and Keith actually rolls his eyes this time.

“Not now, Lance,” he growls, shoving past Lance to get to the fridge behind him. Lance holds up his hands as he backs away from the kitchenette, a bag of greasy chips in hand. Keith yanks open the fridge and starts scouring its measly contents. Three college boys in one dorm doesn’t bode for a fine selection.

“And what’s your deal today, Grumpy?” Lance asks. “Did you scuff your boots? Drop your emo card into the gutter on the way here?”

Someone else stifles a laugh, and Keith registers a second person as he grabs a burrito, only to see white mold already making its home on the tortilla. It’s Hunk, the third roommate, and the only roommate Keith cares about in this whole apartment.

Keith whips around from the fridge and levels Hunk, who sits on the futon, with a glare. Hunk has the decency to look away sheepishly, but Lance doesn’t even flinch.

“What’s with the ‘tude, dude?” he asks again.

When Hunk told Keith not to worry about the roommate situation and he had the perfect candidate to complete the suite, Lance McClain is not who Keith had in mind.

“Trust me. I’ve known Lance forever, and I know you guys will like each other,” Hunk had said. “I’ve got it covered.”

But on move-in day of their sophomore year of college, this mysterious Lance had barged in with fifteen duffle bags and dibs on the biggest bedroom. Keith just stood there, stunned, and watched a tornado rip his plans for a less stressful academic year to shreds.

“Bull. Shit,” he had hissed to Hunk as Hunk slinked past.

“You’ll warm up to him!” Hunk insisted.

It’s been three weeks. So far, Lance has teased Keith about his hair, raced him in who could eat their cereal the fastest, and taken to spreading out over the whole couch like no one else lived there.

And now he’s claiming Keith has a ‘tude.

Keith doesn’t grace him with a reply. Instead, he flips them both off, grabs his backpack again, and disappears into his room with a slammed door.

 

. . .

 

Lance heaves a sigh and slumps against the fridge where Keith stood just moments earlier, staring after the trail of dust in his wake.

“Really, Lance?” Hunk asks from the futon. “’What’s with the ‘tude, dude?’”

“I don’t know!” Lance huffs in exasperation. He pushes himself off the fridge and rolls onto the other end of the futon, rearranging his legs over Hunk’s lap when he picks up his textbook. Hunk rests the textbook on his shins and pats his knee sympathetically. “Three weeks into the semester and he already hates me. I thought you said we’d like each other, Hunk.”

“I did,” Hunk says. “But I might’ve…miscalculated on that a little.”

“This isn’t one of your math problems. You can’t miscalculate a potential friendship! Of which there is none. Why did your cute friend have to be such a recluse?”

“And there’s the miscalculation,” Hunk murmurs, but Lance barrels on.

“It’s weird, Hunk! He’s been your roommate for, like, a year already, right?”

“Uh huh,” Hunk replies as he scribbles something in his textbook. “And my friend, don’t forget that.”

“Yeah, alright, friend and roommate, whatever. Point is, it’s been a while, and I just barge into this apartment like a disappointing Craigslist posting. He doesn’t like me. I change your guys’ mojos.”

Hunk abandons the pretense of doing work in Lance’s presence ( _never_ a good idea) and presses his hands together. “Just give him a few more weeks. He’s like a skittish horse around new people. Trust me; it took me and Pidge badgering him for months just to get him to sit with us at lunch.”

“But what if he never wants to sit with me at lunch?”

Hunk thinks about this, tugging at the end of the yellow fabric tied around his forehead. The longer he thinks, the deeper the stone sinks into Lance’s chest. Honestly, he can’t even place why this bothers him so much. It’s just—he’s a likeable guy! He has friends! So why doesn’t this aloof mullet-wearing roommate want to be his friend?

“You’re Lance McClain! You’re my best friend since middle school, and you’re a charmer. Don’t don’t get in any fights about cereal, and we’ll be fine.” he says. “You wanna help me do this physics stuff?”

“God, no,” Lance groans, rolling off the futon and onto the floor. “Who do you think I am? Someone who does math?”

Hunk merely sets the textbook back on his lap and continues working. Lance, with his face smushed into the cheap carpet, contemplates his life now that Keith Kogane is in it.

When Lance informed his best friends he would return from the horrifying depths of Nebraska and transfer to Arizona State University, Hunk asked if he’d want to become the threesome to his and this Keith’s twosome for sophomore year. Duh, Lance jumped at the sweet deal. A kitchenette, a living room, the best dorm on ASU campus, and his childhood best friend in it? He’d be stupid not to take the offer.

But he also stupidly did not consider who this Keith would be.

Hunk says Keith isn’t great with new people, which Lance can understand—not everyone is as outgoing and popular as him. This would be fine if Lance didn’t live with him, but he does live with him, and it’s not fine.

Lance sees him out of the corner of his eye most days. A flash of soft-looking waves of black hair disappearing into the entrance of his bedroom, a glance at deep black eyes and long eyelashes as Lance passes him into the kitchen, and a blink-if-you-miss-it smile when Hunk says something mildly funny and Keith happens to be in the room. That’s only happened twice so far, but both times caught Lance completely off guard. The corners of Keith’s mouth quirked just a little bit, and Lance had to turn around lest he be caught making strangled faces.

All he knows about Keith, he learned from Hunk: Keith is 19 and Hunk’s randomly assigned roommate from freshman year, he’s a Creative Writing major doing something with robots, and he likes to hole himself away instead of meet new people.

The door to Keith’s bedroom opens again and he stomps across the floor, back into the kitchenette. From his place on the floor, Lance watches Keith’s socked feet move from one cabinet to another, then back into the bedroom. He doesn’t even notice his roommate having a moment on the floor.

“You okay there, buddy?” Hunk asks. “Lance?”

Before Lance can reply, what sounds like a frustrated yell comes from the depths of Keith’s mysteriously hidden bedroom, followed by a loud _thump_.

“’M fine,” Lance says, his words muffled in the carpet.

Keith curses once, then quiet reigns. Lance wonders what he even does for hours on end in that room of his every day, then shakes it out of his head. Goddamn Keith. Fuck Keith! If Keith doesn’t want to be his friend, fine! That is his own terrible, disappointing decision. Not Lance’s.

 

. . .

 

It takes two days of frantically re-reading his manuscript and scribbling notes onto various papers only to immediately crumple them and hurl them at the opposite wall for Keith to cave.

“Fuck! Fuck romance! Fuck it into the goddamn earth!” he yells, taking the whole notebook and throwing it at the wall. The notebook slides pitifully to the floor, tearing a band poster from the wall and leaving Keith with nothing but the frustration buzzing in his hands. He whirls around, searching for something else to throw, when the door to his room creaks open.

“What?” he spits out, chest heaving.

“Never mind!” Hunk squeaks, backing out again.

At Hunk’s voice, Keith’s shoulders slump and his head falls forward to his chest.

“No, sorry. That was rude,” he says. Hunk opens the door a little again and peeks through. “What did you want?”

“I was just wondering, you know, why you were yelling about fucking romance into the earth?” he asks.

“It’s nothing,” Keith huffs. “Sorry for the noise, Hunk.”

“Well, there’s also the fact you haven’t left your room for anything but peeing and grabbing another slice of white bread all weekend.”

Keith drops down into his chair again, tucking his knees into his chest and staring blearily at the blue monitor glowing in the semi-darkness of the room.

“I’m not coming out until I figure this out,” he says.

Hunk opens the door all the way and lets himself in. His eyes sweep the room, taking in the balls of paper, dirty laundry, and blinds closed tight.

“Figured out what?” he asks nonchalantly.

“This stupid romance. It’s not working!”

“…Are you seeing someone and you need relationship help, or is this one of your story thingies?”

“Story thingy,” Keith says despondently.

“Oh. Well, can’t help you there. But I _can_ help you step away from the screen for a little bit, enjoy a nice hot cup of your friend’s iconic dorm ramen.”

Keith contemplates the offer for a moment. The words on the screen blur before him, a jumble of sentences that might not make sense when he comes back to it after class tomorrow.

“Fine,” he acquiesces, scrubbing his eyes. “I’ll eat your ramen.”

But before Keith can move an inch, a knock on the front door of the apartment interrupts him.

“I’ll get it!” Lance yells from the living room, and Keith restrains from frowning. He can hear Lance opening the door and greet the other side.

“Is Keith here?” a familiar voice asks.

“He sure is!” Lance says. Then, louder, “Keith! There is a tall and broad man here for you!”

Keith rolls his eyes and ushers Hunk out of the room. In the doorway, he spots Shiro standing awkwardly in the living room while Lance kind of gapes at him.

“Say that again and I swear to God, Lance,” Keith warns. “Hi, Shiro.”

Keith disappears into his room again, assuming Shiro will follow him. He does, and when the door closes with a soft _click_ , Keith lets his forehead hit his desk.

“What’s up, kiddo?” he greets, ruffling Keith’s greasy hair. “Wow, it’s dark in here.”

He crosses the room—what little room there is to cross—and throws open the curtains, to which Keith shuts his eyes and groans.

“Don’t do that,” he hisses. “I melt in the sun.”

“Relax, it’s a cloudy day for once! Look, it’s gray, just like your tortured soul.”

Keith scowls and picks up his head as Shiro leans on the corner of his desk.

“What do you want, Shiro?” he asks.

“My big brother senses are telling me you should go outside. You haven’t answered any of my texts in two days, and I’m beginning to think you’re forgetting about our weekly dinner. You know, the dinner we do every Sunday? You, me, and Adam?”

“Oh, fuck.” He groans again and crosses his arms over his face, blocking out the light completely. “I’m sorry, Shiro. I can’t make it tonight. I got bad critiques from Coran and I’ve been trying to fix them all weekend.”

“What’s so important that you’re holed up like this?”

“It’s nothing,” Keith sighs. In his mind’s eye, he can picture Shiro raise an eyebrow. “I mean. It’s nothing to _me._ ”

“Now that doesn’t make any sense,” Shiro says. “What did that old bat say?”

Wait. Adam and Shiro! Keith lets his arms fall to his lap.

“You’re in love with Adam, right?” he asks.

“That’s kind of a weird question to ask suddenly, but sure. Why?”

“Coran said I can’t write a realistic romance because I’ve never fallen in love before. But you’ve fallen in love! Tell me what it’s like! Wait, I need to take notes.”

“Is this about your critique?” he asks.

“Just tell me! What are the emotions? How do I convey that in text? How do I fix this entire apparently failed romance and fast?”

Shiro doesn’t reply right away, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“I don’t know, Keith,” he says. Keith waits, his hands hovering over the keyboard. “I can tell you, but you won’t know for sure until you’ve fallen in love yourself.”

Keith cries out in frustration, banging on the keyboard. “I don’t want that! I just want to write this book.”

“What did Coran say about this that makes you so frustrated?”

“He said the romance is flat and unrealistic. And then—then he gave me homework to _fall in love_ by the end of the semester, because apparently that will fix everything!”

Shiro sighs and kicks off the desk, crouching beside Keith to level him with one of those excruciating I’m-older-I-know-more looks.

“I think I know what he means,” he says. “I know it’s hard for you to make friends, let alone let someone into your life like that.”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me again.”

“I’m not, I’m not. I’m just saying that maybe what he means is that what you need is a little less this—” he gestures towards the computer “—and a little more living. I’ve known you for years, Keith. We’re like family. You can write really well, and I mean that even though I don’t read. You can step away for a little while.”

Keith stares at the ceiling, feeling the helplessness settle into his bones. That’s not the answer he’s desperately searching for. Maybe he should just google it. Google will teach him how to fix his story.

“Look, Keith. I’ll respect your wishes and leave you alone for tonight, but tomorrow you have to promise me you’ll get out, okay? And not just for a class. Go on a walk or something. Find Pidge. I’m sure she misses you.”

He squeezes Keith’s shoulder and stands up, heading towards the door.

“Oh, Shiro,” Keith says, to which Shiro pauses. “Tell Adam I say hi. And to recommend you a book to read for once in your life.”

Shiro chuckles and shakes his head, then opens the door and steps out. Silence fills the empty room again, only disturbed by the dim sunlight filtering into the space.

Keith forgets about Hunk’s ramen. He trudges the two steps across the room, picks up his notebook, and collapses onto his bed. Maybe it’s because he’s been sitting at his desk for too long. He needs a slight change of location. Then, he’ll figure out why the blue paladin and the princess aren’t working.

 

. . .

 

Lance takes his ear off the door a millisecond before Tall and Broad opens it. He stumbles backward, plastering an innocent smile on his face and grabbing Hunk’s textbook off the couch.

Shiro shuts the door softly behind him and runs a tired hand through the shock of white hair feathering his forehead. Lance wonders where the stark white color came from. Surely, it’s not natural. But who bleaches one forelock of hair?

It’s only after five seconds of staring that Lance realizes that Shiro’s looking at him peculiarly, too, and Lance has the decency to blush and look down at the textbook.

“You’re the new roommate, right?” Shiro asks, holding out a hand. Lance follows the line of his buff arm up to his shoulder and across. Huh, no arm there.

“Yes sir, that’s me,” Lance says, shaking the hand as vigorously as he can manage. Shiro makes a face at that, then turns away.

“Hunk, make sure Keith gets out tomorrow,” he says, to which Hunk salutes. “And Lance, isn’t it?”

“That’s my name. Wear it out as much as you like,” Lance jokes.

“Right. The next time you eavesdrop, make sure that your cover up isn’t upside down.”

Lance glances down at the textbook. Which is upside down. His cheeks burn red as Shiro saunters out of the apartment. When the door closes, Hunk shakes his head in disappointment.

“I can’t believe you actually did that,” he sighs. “Why did you do that?”

Lance slinks away from Keith’s room to the kitchen, where Hunk stirs a pot of three different types of cheap ramen packets to produce the best Frankenstein ramen possible.

“Because now I have a plan!” he exclaims, slamming his hands on the counter. “Hunk, I’m brilliant.”

“If I put that claim in front of a doctorate jury, I’d fail.”

“But now I know how to be Keith’s friend!” Lance takes the bowl of ramen and follows Hunk to the couch, where they sit on opposite ends.

Hunk takes the first bite of ramen and gestures for Lance to continue.

“No! I can’t reveal my secrets now,” Lance says, wiggling his eyebrows. “You’ll see!”

“I’m not sure I trust this entirely,” Hunk says.

“Oh, don’t worry. He’s gonna love it. I just have to know one thing.”

“I’m kind of scared to tell you if you ask.”

“Where are you planning to take Keith tomorrow?”

Hunk squints at him, caterpillar eyebrows knitted together in confusion. When he opens his mouth, halfway to revealing his idea, Lance grins and leans back on the couch. Oh, this is the perfect plan.

 

. . .

 

“I just can’t believe it, Pidge,” Keith mutters, his words muffled by the shirt collar he’s tugged up over his nose. “I’m going to fail this class, then I’m going to fail my whole degree, and after that I’m going to move back in with Shiro and Adam, and then—”

“Keith!” Pidge snaps her fingers in front of his face, and he blinks. Pidge’s face comes into focus, the harsh sun glinting off her wire glasses. “Get your head together. He’s not going to—oh, hey, Lance. He’s not going to fail you because of one problem in your book.”

Pidge’s greeting forces Keith to look away to the fourth person joining their outside table at the Union, dropping a massive tray of fried chicken and waffle fries onto the metal with a clatter. He rolls his eyes and ignores Lance, returning to his awful recount.

“But that’s what he said! He said I’m good at story structure and metaphor, but that I’ll never write a realistic romance because I haven’t, like—” he pauses, glaring at the table and wishing Lance were anywhere else but overhearing this. “I haven’t fallen in love.”

Just as suspected, Lance’s voice beats out the rest to reply.

“Whoa, whoa! Am I hearing this right?” he gasps, leaning diagonally across the table to face Keith. Hunk, for his part, draws Lance back with a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Keith bites out. “Hunk, why is he here? This is private.”

“About as private as you can get in the Union,” Lance says, stealing a fry from Hunk’s plate. “I just happened to see my two best friends and my new roommate sitting in the glorious sun and wanted to stop by. Is that so bad?”

“Yes—”

“Now, here’s a more pressing question. Have you really _never_ fallen in love?”

Keith’s face burns as he looks staunchly away, focusing his vision on a barren tree in the landscape a few yards away.

“Pidge, kick him out,” Keith groans. But Pidge, because she’s a little shit and probably has been ever since she was a gremlin child, just cackles.

“No, I missed him. He can stay,” she says. Lance gives her a high five.

Keith really regrets taking Shiro’s advice and letting Hunk drag him to the Union. The sun still beats a little too bright and hot to even sit outside in the Arizona September weather, but Hunk had insisted on the Vitamin D.

Now, Hunk adjusts his headband and smiles sympathetically at Keith as Lance waves a piece of fried chicken and continues. “You still haven’t answered me, Keith. You really haven’t fallen in love?”

“Hunk, please,” Keith pleads. Hunk just shrugs. Keith doesn’t miss the wary look he sends Lance’s way. “It’s not that weird.”

“I’m just really surprised!” Lance says. “I mean, I thought that _everyone’s_ fallen in love by this age. Right, Hunk?”

“I mean, I can only speak for myself, but Shay and I are going pretty well…” He shrugs sheepishly again.

“And you, Pidgeon?”

“I take offense to the nickname, but if I’ve fallen in love with anything, it’s my 3D printer,” Pidge says.

“I’ll take it.” Lance turns his sly grin on Keith again. “So, you’re the only one here.”

Keith throws his hands up makes to get up, but Pidge grabs his wrist and pulls him back down.

“Why don’t you just ask around and have people tell you what it’s like?” she asks, continuing the conversation as if Lance hadn’t interrupted. Keith sometimes truly appreciates her.

“I already asked Shiro and he refused,” Keith says glumly. “He said maybe I should just take Coran’s advice.”

“I’m not following the conversation,” Lance interrupts. “Anyone wanna explain what’s got Keith in a twist to me?”

“He had a meeting with his professor about his book and basically got torn a new asshole,” Pidge explains.

“But I read the first chapter and I liked it!” Hunk says. “I liked the part where the space explorers found the blue lion and it was, like, a spaceship. A lion spaceship in space!”

“They’re called paladins, Hunk. It sounds a lot cooler. Whatever.” Keith picks at the pitiful burger in front of him, the lettuce wilting in the heat.

“And what’s this got to do with Keith never falling in love?” Lance asks.

Keith frowns and trains his eyes on the burger. Maybe if he doesn’t look up, he won’t be embarrassed about it. What does it matter if Lance knows, anyway? He’s just an annoying roommate.

“Professor Coran said the romance is unrealistic because I’ve never fallen in love before,” he mutters.

“What was that? You gotta speak a little louder.” Lance cups his ear in exaggeration.

“Ugh, Pidge, get him out of here.”

“Tell him what Coran’s homework is, Keith,” Pidge eggs on instead. “Show him the paper.”

Reluctantly, he pulls the crumpled piece of paper from underneath the burger’s plastic tray. Lance snatches it out of Keith’s hands immediately.

“One, opposable thumbs. Two, fall in love,” he reads aloud, then giggles. Hunk stops mid-chew.

“Wait. Voltron doesn’t have opposable thumbs?” he asks.

“There are more pressing matters here, Hunk,” Lance says, waving the paper. “Like, how are we gonna get Keithy to fall in love by the end of the semester so we can save his grade?”

“Drop it, Lance.” Keith takes back the paper and hugs it to his chest. “It’s not going to happen. I just have to accept my fate. I’ll go to trade school. Be a mechanic. I don’t mind being a mechanic.”

But the drop in his voice clearly betrays him, and Keith droops his shoulders. Pidge pats his back sympathetically. He figures the conversation ends there, because Hunk and Pidge already know it’s not going to happen.

Except when Keith glances up again, resigned to finishing his burger though it doesn’t taste nearly as delicious as before, Lance is staring at him with this wicked grin.

“What?” Keith huffs.

“I bet you you can,” he hums. “I bet you I could get you to fall in love before the end of the semester and write the best romance between two space explorers the world has ever seen.”

Keith narrows his eyes. This is devious Lance. Lance with a plan. He’s not fond of this Lance.

“Paladins,” Keith says. “And no.”

“In fact,” Lance continues like Keith hadn’t said anything at all, “I’m the perfect person to be your guide to falling in love. They don’t call me Loverboy Lance for nothing!”

“Literally nobody has ever called you that,” Pidge says.

“I’m going to ignore that because you hurt my feelings. Listen, I date someone new every weekend and I have one serious relationship on my resume. I know all the tricks, all the ins and outs of falling in love.”

As Pidge and Hunk look on with twin expressions of horror, Keith sneers, “Why would I ever learn from someone as annoying as you?”

Lance’s expression falls for a split second before the grin comes back full force and he plucks a fry from Keith’s plate.

“There’s a lot to learn from a love connoisseur like me, young padawan. And, you know, if you want your grade…”

“I’m too busy,” Keith says.

“In your room all day? You wish.”

“I don’t care about romance.”

“Obviously, which is why you need my help.”

“Hunk, back me up.”

“Sorry, Keith,” Hunk says.

“Give it up, Keith.” Lance takes another fry and pops it into his mouth. “I bet you I can get you to fall in love by the end of the semester.”

Keith grits his teeth. He’s not going to get Lance of all people’s help to fall in love. If Keith were going to do that—which he’s _not_ , because he doesn’t need to and romance is stupid—he wouldn’t need Lance’s help.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lance, but your charm doesn’t work on everyone. You’re not helping me ‘fall in love’ with whatever evil scheme you have in your head.”

With that, Keith picks up his plastic tray and stalks away from the table. So much for going outside and socializing. As Lance shouts after him, he dumps the tray and heads back to the dorm. He’s got to fix this somehow.

 

. . .

 

Coffee. Keith needs coffee. After another day of refusing Hunk and Lance’s invitations and investing all his will to live in his manuscript, Keith teeters on the brink of hurling another notebook, but this time at someone’s fragile face. Ugh. Coffee will fix this sour ‘tude.

The closest place on campus is the Starbucks in the Union. At six in the morning, hours before a less insane time to wake up, Keith trudges across campus and slips inside to join the long line of sleep deprived students advancing like zombies to the counter. His mind eases into the familiar back-and-forth of debating plot and character as he stares at the ground. What do the princess and the paladin need? History? They can’t have history, they—

“Keith?” someone gasps, and Keith looks up in horror to find Lance in front of him, a textbook already wrapped between his arms and two-ton bags under his eyes, his usual chipper smile softened by sleep.

“Lance,” Keith grumbles.

“I didn’t see you wake up,” Lance says.

“I did. Five minutes ago. I have to go to the library.”

The line stumbles forward, and Lance says, “Ah. Romance troubles between your space explorers?”

Keith rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply.

“My offer is still on the table,” Lance sings as he comes up to the counter. He tells the cashier, “Whatever sugary concoction is your drink of the day.”

Of course Lance drinks only sugary coffees that barely count as coffees. Keith fights the urge to grimace about it.

Keith rubs his eyes and takes Lance’s place at the counter. He slaps a five-dollar bill as he peers at the sign behind the cashier.

“Haven’t seen you around here,” he says conversationally, and Keith blinks as the boy comes into focus. He can’t be older than Keith, with a wave of carefully gelled blonde hair and sparkling icy blue eyes. He cocks his hip and gestures for Keith to give his order.

“Uh,” Keith stutters. “Just a small black.”

“No sugar for you? You look like you need a little sweetness in your life.”

It takes a full ten seconds for the words to register in Keith’s mind, and by then the boy’s taken his bill and is holding out change.

“…Thanks,” Keith mumbles, taking the change and stuffing it into his pocket. He backs away, and only then does he see Lance’s mirthful expression around the rim of his cup.

Keith glares at him and dares him to speak a single word. Lance heeds the warning.

But when Keith’s black coffee slides onto the counter and he picks it up, he finds seven digits scrawled onto the white cardboard and chokes.

When he looks up, the blonde cashier winks back at him. Keith’s hand clenches reflexively and the top pops off the cup, sending scorching black coffee exploding over his hand and the floor.

“Keith!” Lance exclaims as Keith drops the cup, jumps back, and hisses.

The cashier’s jaw drops as another worker rushes from behind the counter with a mop. Keith blushes furiously, wide eyes flickering between the floor, his burning hand, and the cashier. After an excruciating moment, he backs away and out of the store without a single word.

“Keith!” Lance calls again, sprinting after him. Keith races across the cement, shaking his hand as the reality of the burns sets in. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

Keith halts and whips around. Lance looks unabashedly amused, which sends new embarrassment through Keith’s veins.

“Dude, I can’t believe you just did that,” he wheezes, clutching at his chest. “No wonder! You’re useless at this stuff!”

“Lance, shut up,” Keith pleads.

“Okay, okay. But man, if this is how you act in real life, I don’t know what’s going on in your stories.”

Keith’s cheeks burn and he looks away. Shit. He knows, deep inside, Lance is right.

The romance isn’t working. Keith’s love life is nonexistent. He’s going to flunk out of college. He takes a deep breath through his nose and levels Lance with his most threatening look.

“What if you don’t get me to fall in love by the end of the semester?” he asks.

Lance’s expression morphs from shocked to confused to thoughtful in the space of a nanosecond. He seems to mull over the question, tapping the straw of his drink against his chin.

“We can trade rooms,” he says. “You’re always complaining about that.”

“And you do my laundry,” Keith demands.

“I do all your laundry except whites.”

“You do all my laundry, including whites, plus the futon cover.”

“All the laundry, including whites, no futon,” Lance counters.

“Deal,” Keith says.

A slow, sly grin unfurls over Lance’s lips. He raises an eyebrow at Keith’s extended hand.

“Wait. Really?” he asks.

“Yes, and hurry up before I take it back,” Keith snaps.

Lance doesn’t waste a moment, grabbing Keith’s hand and shaking it vigorously. Keith hisses and Lance quickly retracts, both suddenly aware of the coffee burns forming on his skin.

“I can’t believe you broke your coffee cup because he gave you his number,” Lance laughs.

“Say that again and I’ll include the futon cover.” Keith spins on his heel and walks away again, hiding his hand against his chest.

“No, I like it!” Lance says, jogging to keep up. “It means I have a project. And you, Keith, are my best subject yet.”

The tone of his voice is suspicious and unsettling. Keith flattens his mouth into a frown and doesn’t reply. He won’t give Lance the satisfaction.

Because Lance is already all sorts of satisfied. He continues blabbering, listing all the things he wants to do with his ‘best subject.’ Keith doesn’t bother to listen. He’s freaking out in his own mind, because Lance, of all people—Lance has taken it upon himself to get Keith to fall in love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are so appreciated!


	2. Form Feet and Legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance sighs, looking despondently down at his plate. He needs to tell Hunk the truth. This isn't something he's going to be able to keep to himself. If Lance hides this in his chest, tucks it away next to his heart, _something_ is going to explode.
> 
> Which is why he's going to tell Hunk now, because then the problem will be out in the world, and it will disappear. Like it usually does when Lance tells Hunk about his problems. 
> 
> "It's a tiny problem," he says. "Like, super tiny. The size of a proton."
> 
> "Electrons are smaller."
> 
> "Okay, it's electrode sized."
> 
> "Mm. Electrodes are Pokémon, and that's significantly bigger than a proton."
> 
> "Hunk! Be supportive! I have a problem, but it's not a big one, and my plan is to tell you said problem so you can make it disappear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far! Chapter sizes are going wildly change, and I was considering breaking them down more, but I'm way too fond of my chapter titles and chapter breaks. While last chapter was around 7k, this one is 21k!

"Adam, can you pass the soy sauce?" Shiro asks.

"Sure thing," Adam says. He picks up the bottle and passes it to Shiro, who takes it with a kiss to Adam's knuckles.

Keith makes retching sounds on the other side of the table, to which Adam chuckles and Shiro sends a disapproving look.

"How old are you, Keith?" he asks.

"Old enough," Keith retorts, stabbing at the rice on his plate with chopsticks. "Old enough to know you're gross."

"I'm pretty sure that means you're _not_ old enough," Adam says.

Keith refrains from rolling his eyes at the dinner table with the two adults he actually allows to look after him. Instead, he sticks out his tongue.

Adam sighs, but Keith spots the grin flickering at the corners of his lips.

"So, Adam," Shiro says, setting his chopsticks down, "did I tell you I met Keith's new roommate the other day?"

"You did not. Is this the roommate Keith talks about? What's he like?"

"Annoying—"

"Strange, but nice," Shiro interrupts. "I don't understand where the annoying part comes from."

"You don't see him every day," Keith grumbles. "He took the big room when I'm the one that needs a desk that actually fits."

"He called me Tall and Broad," Shiro muses. Adam snorts, one hand covering his mouth.

"I like him, and I haven't even met him," Adam says. "What's his name again?"

"Lance," Keith says.

He pouts and pushes the rice around his plate. He doesn't want to tell them about the bet thing. It's stupid. He feels stupid for having agreed to it—all because of a spilled coffee.

Above his head, Adam and Shiro exchange uncertain glances. Keith sighs and takes a bite. Sometimes, here under Shiro and Adam's apartment roof, watching the two move around each other like they always have, Keith feels distinctly sixteen again.

Out of all the places and people in the world, contentment comes most naturally with Shiro—and by extension, Adam. The way Shiro smiles serenely across the table reminds Keith of his first meal with him, the assistant in a military-style bootcamp his foster parents forced him to endure. Something about building character, or whatever. When Shiro learned about Keith, he didn't push him away awkwardly like everyone else. He had rounder cheeks back then, but he still packed the same confident aura and caring personality Keith found himself attracted to over pancakes and scrambled eggs.

When Keith moved families, they kept in touch. When the new family kicked him out, Shiro took him in. When Keith graduated, Shiro pushed him to apply for college—even if it was a college with a 97 percent acceptance rate. To Shiro, he wasn't a weirdo nobody. He was just Keith.

Adam arrived on the scene soon after Shiro took him in. When Keith would shuffle moodily into the kitchen and find Shiro smiling softly at his phone, he knew something was up. When Shiro first introduced them, Keith wrinkled his nose at Adam's pressed shirts and sparkling clean glasses.

But in the late nights, as Shiro snored on the couch between them and the credits rolled at the end of a movie marathon, they talked. And Keith knew, however begrudgingly, Adam was in it for the long haul.

If Keith knows anything about love, it’s Shiro and Adam. Probably.

"Keith," Shiro says, snapping Keith back to the present. "I said, how are your classes?"

"Fine," Keith clips, shoving another bite of rice and veggies into his mouth. "Yours?"

"They're alright," Shiro nods slowly. He lowers his eyes to the table, biting his lip like he always does when he's hiding something. Keith narrows his eyes.

"What?" he asks point-blank.

"Any updates with Professor Coran, that funny guy?" he asks instead.

"Disappointed I didn't come to class hungover," Keith says slowly. "But that's about it. What?"

Shiro ignores him and nods thoughtfully. Keith follows the line of his arm, chopsticks abandoned on his plate. Instead, his hand is threaded between Adam's fingers, both their knuckles white as the rice.

"I said _what?_ " Keith asks one more time. "You guys are hiding something."

"Keith," Shiro says finally. Keith gulps. "I have news. We have news."

Adam and Shiro exchange more glances, filled with what might be guilt if Keith looks close enough. He holds his breath as Shiro opens and closes his mouth more than once, averting his eyes to anything but Keith's actual face.

"I, uh," he begins. "I got accepted into the doctorate program I applied for."

"You…did?" Keith says blankly.

"The one in Florida."

Oh.

Keith's utensils clatter to the plate. Shiro's words process, but his brain buffers.

"I know it's early," Shiro barrels on, "but they said my application was good enough that, if I wanted, I could start this spring semester."

Keith fishmouths, his fists clenching and unclenching. Shiro in Florida. By extension, Adam in Florida. Shiro and Adam in Florida. Keith in Arizona.

"Are—are you?" Keith asks desperately, eyebrows furrowed.

"I don't know yet," Shiro admits. "I just wanted to tell you. Whether it's spring or next fall, I—we wanted you to be the first to know."

"You and Adam?"

Adam nods. "I'll go with him."

Keith's head swirls with more than just the headache with which he woke up. Shiro made it into the PhD program. Rocket science. Shiro made it one step further to his goal of becoming an astronaut. Shiro and Adam are moving to Florida.

"So, you're moving to Florida," Keith says. "Both of you."

They nod, and the bottom drops from Keith's stomach. He slumps over in his chair, raking his fingers through his hair. Florida.

"That’s cool," he forces out. "It’s awesome! You're good enough for that."

Shiro smiles warmly, that older brother smile he reserves for Keith hitting the baseball or completing a math assignment. It churns his stomach and sends bile up his throat.

"Again, we haven't decided yet. But…yeah. We might move to Florida."

The warm smile spreads into a beaming one and he squeezes Adam's hand between the half-empty plates. Dammit, Keith can’t get between that.

“You should,” he says, clearing his throat. He averts his eyes from their hands to the corner of the table. “That’d be cool.”

“You’re really okay with that?” Shiro asks sincerely. “Because it’s a big change.”

Keith forces himself to nod. It’s fine. Shiro can do whatever he wants. Keith is just a kid he picked up off the street and took in for a little while. Shiro’s not _beholden_ to anything just because Keith is here. It’s fine.

“I’m sorry, Keith,” Shiro says. “I wish the program was here.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re always talking about getting out of the state. And you guys, you—you deserve…” He trails off, shrugs his shoulders a little like that explains it all.

“You visit us any time,” Adam says. “In fact, you’re visiting at least twice a year, mandatory.”

“But don’t think about that right now,” Shiro says. “It’s still a ways off. Right now, Adam has a million English 101 papers to grade, and you still have to fall in love, according to your teacher.”

“Keith has to _what?_ ”

“Coran’s homework for Keith is to fall in love by the end of the semester…”

It’s like they’re already a world away. Keith can reach out, but his hand will pass through Shiro’s body. Adam’s touch is only phantom. He watches as Adam shakes his head at Coran’s antics, as Shiro grins and discards the tofu he doesn’t eat on Adam’s plate. It doesn’t feel like a ways off. It feels like right now. It feels like shit.

Keith shoves the chopsticks into his mouth so he doesn’t have to smile. It’s fine.

 

. . .

 

 “Alright!” Lance loudly says as he leans over the back of Keith’s chair. Keith jumps, slamming his hands against his laptop keyboard. “First order! We’re making you a Tinder.”

Lance can practically see the blood drain from Keith’s face as he rounds the chair and plops onto the opposing couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. Pidge and Hunk sit on either side, each watching with amusement as Keith slowly removes his oversized headphones.

“I really hope the music meant I heard you wrong,” he says, eyebrows furrowing. Lance grins wickedly. So, he really does have to teach him all the basics.

“If we had more time, I’d let you find someone in your classes to fall in love with,” he shrugs. “But because you only have a semester to save your grade, we have to hurry things along a little.”

Keith stares for another moment, then nods.

“Makes sense,” he says. “But no.”

He turns back to his laptop, moving his headphones back over his ears.

“Ah, ah!” Lance cries. He takes his feet off the coffee table and leans over it instead, taking off Keith’s headphones himself. “We’re making you a Tinder! It’s time to gather the kindling to fuel your fire of love!”

He swears he sees the corner of Keith’ lips quirk, but it morphs into a gritted frown as Lance unplugs the headphones and tosses them onto the table. Lance takes the laptop, too, and hands it off to Pidge.

“Hey!” Keith protests, but Pidge settles into the corner of the couch and begins tapping on the keyboard. “Don’t read that! It’s not for the world!”

“Your definition of the world is narrow, Keith,” Lance says with a wave of his hand. “It might do you good to let her read it.”

He crosses his arms and pouts in his armchair. Dammit if Keith didn’t act like a petulant child sometimes. But Lance promised he would help Keith fall in love, and this is the first step in his master plan.

“Give me your phone,” he says, holding out the palm of his hand. Keith glares at it.

“No way.”

“Come on, Keith. If you fight this every step of the way it’ll be harder.”

Keith rolls his eyes and slaps his phone into Lance’s palm unlocked.

“First, I’m giving you my number,” Lance narrates as he inputs his number into the phone. “Now I’m downloading the app. Give me your fingerprint.”

Keith does as he’s told, and then Lance opens the app and shows it to Keith.

“It’s gonna ask you to make an account with your Facebook,” he says.

“That’s weird. That’s a breach of privacy,” Keith mutters. He looks to Pidge and Hunk for agreement, but Pidge is evidently rifling through Keith’s browser history and Hunk sort of shrugs. Keith huffs angrily. “Alright, fine. Whatever.”

Lance swipes the phone out of his hand again after the first few steps. The screen is opened to a selection of Facebook pictures to pick through for the profile. In the latest one, which looks, like, five years old, Keith flips off the camera with a Naruto headband over his forehead.

“Oh, no way. These are your Facebook pictures?” Lance asks. He should’ve known that Keith’s Facebook would be a gold mine for blackmail material.

Pidge glances away from the laptop like she doesn’t already have Keith on Facebook and snickers.

“Oh, yeah, that was Keith’s Naruto phase,” she says. “Hunk found pictures of Keith dressed as Sasuke, but I think he burned them.”

“It was on Halloween and Shiro forced me into costume!” Keith growls.

A laugh bubbles out of Lance, and he giggles throughout the rest of the pictures. Upon the last one, he realizes a grave mistake.

“None of these are usable. All I see are My Chemical Romance graphics and random group pictures. Who even are these people?” he asks as he flips to a picture of Keith on the arm of a couch, scowling at the camera while three others smile.

"Give me that," he hisses, snatching the phone away. Lance's mouth falls open in surprise.

"Sorry?" Whatever Lance just said, it flared Keith’s endless pit of anger. He shrugs it off, though. Not important right now.

Keith closes his eyes momentarily, then opens them and begins scrolling through his phone. Whatever lightheartedness existed in his features moments ago has faded completely, replaced by a hardened expression Lance has seen a few times since he's known him…Huh. Might be important. Noted for later.

"Here," Keith finally says. "This is the only decent picture of me."

He hands the phone back, and Lance squints at it.

“A photo of you scowling with…an even hotter man?”

“Don’t ever say anything about Shiro ever again.”

“Hey, I’m just saying! Normally that wouldn’t work, but if you don't even have selfies, it'll have to do.” He sighs dramatically and taps to the next page.

“You can use this one, too,” Pidge says. “He’s not smiling in this one, either, but it’s a selfie we took at a robotics competition last year.

Lance makes an unsure noise when he sees it. He never knew one man could scowl so much. Still, he acquiesces and adds it in, then says, “Now, for a bio.”

“Oh, I have an idea,” Hunk says, holding up his hands. “Honesty is the best policy. Lance, write ‘I’m looking for dates because my writing professor said I’ve never experienced life before.’”

“Good one, Hunk, but I’m veto-ing it. Pidge, you try.”

“Huh?” She glances up from Keith’s laptop.

“What are you even doing with that?” Keith growls, almost lunging over the coffee table to grab it back. Pidge holds up her hands and lets him, though she returns his scowl.

“Tell me about yourself, Keith,” Lance says, ignoring the laptop deal-io. Pidge, he knows, has a few nosy habits.

“I don’t know,” Keith shrugs, closing the laptop and setting it on the table. “I’m not really interesting.”

“That’s a lie,” Hunk says. “I think you’re interesting!”

“Nah.” Keith brings his knees to his chest and hugs them. “I sleep, I go to the gym, I write stories. That’s all.”

The metaphorical light bulb bursts above Lance’s head and he snaps his fingers.

“Writing stories is interesting!” he says. “We’ll go with that. What’s your novel thingy about again?”

Keith groans and buries his face into his knees so the only thing Lance can see is the mat of hair flopping over them. Lance grins. He looks cute like that, even if Lance has to wrestle him for something as simple as a fucking Tinder account.

"It's about one giant robot composed of many smaller robots trying to restore good in an evil universe," Hunk explains. "And the robots don't have opposable thumbs."

"Don't put that in there," Keith says, bringing his face up again to glare at Hunk. "It doesn't sound cool.

"I think it sounds sick," Lance says honestly. "Like all those mecha shows from the '80s."

Still, if Keith doesn't want to use it, he doesn't want to use it. He taps the phone thoughtfully against his chin. What, other than his cute button nose and brash personality, could Lance put in a Tinder bio?

Oh. Well, honesty is the best policy, right?

"I don't like that face," Keith says. "You have a weird smile."

"I'm just taking inspiration from what you've said. Something simple, confident, enticing..." Lance drawls, tapping feverishly on the phone. He smiles triumphantly at the finished text, then reads it out loud. “ _I like sleeping, working out, and writing science fiction. Looking for someone to be the inspiration for my next novel love interest._ ”

"No, no, no," Keith protests immediately. He reaches across the coffee table again, but Lance hugs the phone to his chest and keeps grinning mischievously.

"It's only the truth!" he says. "Don't worry, you can change it later!"

"I'm not going to _advertise_ the fact that I need a goddamn date to pass my class!"

"You're not advertising that! You're…twisting it into a smooth pick up line. Trust me, I know this stuff like the back of my hand!”

Keith falls back onto the chair with a huff of frustration.

"I don't even sleep," he grumbles. "I just said that because it sounds like what people would say."

"Not everything has to be the truth. Besides, your profile still sucks. You need more pictures."

Lance opens the camera app on the phone and raises it to capture Keith in the lens. Keith covers his face with one hand and flips Lance off with the other. Cackling, Lance takes the picture.

"You're such a spoilsport!" Lance chastises. "We can't use that one!"

"That's the whole damn point. I don't want any pictures of me."

"'Kay, but your only photo is with Shiro and the Naruto ones suck. It’s almost worse than having friends in the Robotics clubs in high school.”

“Now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure you came to a competition dressed as Kakashi, Lance…”

“No, I fucking did not! Allura would never let me do that,” Lance protests. Although, uh. He might have just never told Allura about it.

"You liar. That competition was so fun," Pidge says wistfully. "I think you burned all those pictures, too.”

"Aww. Remember our robot, Slayer?" Hunk asks, reaching around Lance to poke Pidge in the shoulder.

"It was so cute! And the chainsaw could puncture any opponent with such ease," Pidge gushes.

"A robot with a chainsaw is cute?" Keith asks incredulously, like _who the fuck are these people and how did they come into his life?_

"We painted it pink! Nobody saw it coming for them," Hunk says, a hand over his chest and a wistful smile on his face. "Too bad we had to destroy Slayer for parts."

Lance shakes his head and Keith looks on in horror. Lance has to agree with him. Robots in science fiction? Hell yeah. Pidge and Hunk's robots? Beyond his small brain's comprehension, even after so many years of exposure to smart people.

"Anywho," Lance says. "It's finished. Keep swiping. Find your type."

He throws the phone at Keith, who catches it inches away from his face. Keith scrunches his nose when he reads the profile.

"Keith, 20, Garrison University," he says, followed by a fake retch. "I would rather die than find a hook up on here."

"We're not using it for hook-ups. We're using it to help you fall in _love_. Flowers, chocolate hearts! Have a sense of romance!"

He ignores Lance and says, "It's not going to work."

"Don't worry yourself, Keithy. I'll be here to help you," Lance dismisses. He musters up his best sincere expression and leans forward, ducking to force Keith to look at him. He does, for a moment, and glances away. That might be a blush on his cheeks.

"Yeah, whatever," he mumbles. "You better, Lance."

Something swells in Lance's chest. That might be the first positive—or, as positive as Keith Kogane can be—thing Keith has ever said to him. Lance can already tell their Friendship-o-Meter is steadily climbing. Perfect! Lance has always believed that no recluse is above their friendship, and his theory is about to be proved right again.

 

. . .

 

The next time Lance brings up Mission Make Keith Fall in Love, Keith is not in the mood to hear about it.

The front door of the dorm slams shut, announcing Lance’s arrival like he’s the most important thing in the room. And so far, Keith is pretty sure Lance _does_ think that. His ego is big enough for it, that’s for sure.

Keith glances up from his laptop for all of half a second before returning to the words on the page. While the whole romance thing is on the back burner for now, Keith works on the second installment of the Voltron: Legendary Defender series. More so than the manuscript for class, he actually…enjoys writing it, oddly enough. It’s a break from the monotony of his life. Wake up, go to the gym, go to class, deal with annoying people and keep to himself, then come back to his laptop and imagine a world where robotic lion spaceships actually exist. Where his characters have bigger problems than Keith himself could possibly fathom.

_The Blue Lion roars and hurtles into the gravitational orbit of the ice planet, careening with increasing speed towards the surface while its paladin screams in the pilot seat. In the paladin’s peripheral, the Yellow Lion—_

“-‘m wondering if you hear anything while you type.” Lance’s voice cuts through when he crashes onto the futon beside him, throwing his arm over the back and stretching out his legs.

Keith follows the movement for a second before he blinks and realizes Lance is talking to him. He glances around, and a second realization hits him. Hunk isn’t there. When was the last time Keith looked around if Hunk isn’t here?

“What?” Keith says dumbly.

“Huh, well that proves me right,” Lance hums. “Whatcha doing?”

“Nothing.” Keith’s eyes drop back to his screen, the words swimming blearily before him.

_\--Lion spins. Before he can think anything else, the surface of this unknown planet meets them, and his lion sinks into the water with a sickening crunch—_

[“Has anyone told you you get into this super creepy trance when you type?” Lance interrupts again.](https://totesunrepentant.tumblr.com/post/184420724805/and-ill-form-the-heart-by) “I bet I can snap my fingers in front of your face and you won’t even notice it.”

Keith rolls his eyes and doesn’t grace him with a reply. There are more pressing matters. Like…

_…The tech hums and the lights come on again in the Blue Lion._

_“Oh, good! The blue lion’s coming back online now--_

Another snap, and Keith’s attention is broken _again._

“Lance, will you just—”

“Welcome back, beautiful,” Lance says with a grin. “You did your trance thing again.”

Keith rolls his eyes. If he keeps ignoring Lance’s attempts, will Lance leave?

_\--online now. Welcome back, beautiful,” the blue paladin says._

“Alright, I’m calling it. Time to take your lappytoppy away and focus on more pressing matters,” Lance says.

Keith whines as Lance plucks the laptop from his lap and places it on the floor. He has half a mind to hiss at Lance and steal away his laptop to the safety of his bedroom, but he also has a feeling that Lance is kind of like a train and won’t stop for anything, much less Keith.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asks, crossing his arms and pulling his knees to his chest.

“I wanna know if you’ve been keeping up with _my_ assigned homework,” Lance says.

“No.”

His blunt answer has the desired response. Lance kind of fishmouths, this funny look with his upturned nose and thin eyebrows.

“Keith!” Lance says, shoving at Keith’s feet with his own. “It’s been a week!”

“Yeah, and I’m not touching a dating app.” Keith kicks back.

“You’re your own worst enemy, you know that? No wonder you’re going to fail a class. You have _no_ idea how to pay attention to instruction,” Lance huffs.

“I know how to pay attention.”

“As demonstrated by your weird trance thing, _obviously_ not.”

Lace unfolds himself from the couch and heads to the little kitchenette. Keith watches him rummage through the fridge and bring out two beers. He pops them open and returns, plopping back down and holding one of them out to Keith. Keith stares at it.

“If you keep acting this way, I’m gonna have to assign some trust exercises,” Lance says. “But I think you’d just drop me.”

“You’re right. I’m not saving your sorry ass.” Still, Keith takes the beer and drinks some, the amber liquid burning down his throat.

Lance shakes his head with a sigh, then shuffles closer, until he rests an elbow on one of Keith’s knees and holds out his hand.

“We’ll go through this together. Baby steps, Keith. Give me your phone.”

Keith reluctantly hands over his phone unlocked and says, “I despise you, Lance.”

“You don’t. You’re just jealous of my game. What’s your type?”

Lance looks at him expectantly and Keith just kind of…blinks back. A type? Keith doesn’t think about types.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I’ve never thought about that before.”

“Bullshit,” Lace snorts. “Come on! Everyone’s thought about their type before.”

“What’s yours, then?”

Lace sigs wistfully. “Attractive and cute. Long hair. A good body—”

“That’s shallow.”

“If you would let me _finish._ People who are independent, strong, and won’t mind my enormous, overbearing family. Someone who’s kind, laughs at my jokes, and...” Lance kind of bites his lip, letting the sentence trail off, and shrugs his shoulders once.

Unbidden, a thought crosses Keith’s mind: _Definitely not me._

“Still shallow,” he says instead. “I don’t know mine.”

Lance shifts until they can both see the screen. The dude has enormous muscles, an ill-fitting tank top, and a backwards snapback in a mirror selfie.

“No. Next.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“His clothes don’t fit. Next.”

“I thought you’d like his muscles, you gym weirdo.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Gym weirdo?”

“Yeah, I see how you go to the gym every morning. Weirdo.”

If anything, Lance is the weirdo. Memorizing Keith’s schedule. Making him find a date on Tinder. Keith frowns and turns back to the phone. Lance seems much closer than before, and Keith feels distinctly uncomfortable.

As he nonchalantly tries to shift away, Lance swipes and says, “Yes or no, and tell me why.”

“No. He looks like a high school bully.”

“And him?”

“Fuck, no. It says he works at Starbucks.”

Lance raises an eyebrow. “…And?”

“And I can’t go back there! I don’t…” Keith covers the rest of the sentence with a swig of beer and grimaces as Lance laughs.

“What about—oh, hell no. Not him.”

Keith peers at the screen, where a dark-skinned man beams at the camera, a dog in his lap.

“Why not? I like dogs. He’s okay.”

“Already went on a date with him. He smelled like horseradish the entire time. It got in my fucking clothes, Keith.”

Lance shudders, like it’s a bad memory, and that, for whatever reason, pulls a little laugh from Keith.

“Next. I won’t suffer the same fate,” he says. It takes Lance another moment to swipe, and when Keith glances at him, there’s a soft smile on his lips.

He looks back at the phone. They swipe a few more times. Truth be told, Keith isn’t interested in a single person, even if they look…okay. Fine. Whatever. He doesn’t really care.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Keith, you’re picky,” Lance mutters under his breath.

“And you’re not picky at all,” Keith retorts. “You’d hit on a rock if it wore mascara.”

“Hey, or cologne. Or both! I have good taste, and there are many good people out in the beautiful world.”

“How many?” Keith asks before he can dam the words back.

Lance blinks, cocks his head. “How many what?”

“You said you date someone new every week and have…what was it? One serious relationship under your belt.”

“Oh, yeah!” Lance leans away, finally, an annoying smirk on his face. “My romantic exploits. There’s enough to fill a resume with references to spare.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I’m not hiring you.”

“Think you already did, buddy.” Lance stretches an arm across the back of the futon and strokes his chin in mock-thought. “Well, let’s see. There’s that summer after high school with Plaxum in Cuba. Nyma, before I went to Nebraska. Nebraska doesn’t really have a lot of crop. Well, they do. Heh, there’s a lot of corn. But there was—” He counts on his fingers. “—Ashley, Jason, Mikey, Esperanza, Rocco, Guillame—a dreamy French exchange student who knew how to use his—”

“Alright, I get it. Fuck.” Keith fakes a gag as Lance laughs. “You’re an asshole and you get around.”

“I’m not an asshole, Keith. I’m just really charming.” He winks for good measure. Keith just stares at him.

Lance’s resume leaves a pretty big gaping hole, though. Sure, college and whatever, but if Lance got around in college…

“You didn’t say anything about high school,” he says. “What, you go to prom alone or something?

“In your dreams, Mullet,” Lance scoffs. His expression softens, though, and he shakes his head. “No, I only had one girlfriend in high school. Her name’s Allura. We were together for, like, three years—that’s the serious relationship on my romantic resume.”

“Only one?” Keith raises an eyebrow.

“Hey, don’t get suspicious. Allura and me were awesome, Keith! We won prom king and queen, just for your information. I bet you weren’t even nominated.”

“I didn’t go,” Keith says. “Good to know you won prom king with your girlfriend and immediately broke up after.”

Lance pokes Keith in the chest forcefully. “We broke it off peacefully and she’s still one of my best friends. Don’t get your tighty whities in a twist because you think me getting around translates to me hurting people.”

Keith doesn’t reply, only crosses his arms and cradles the beer to his chest.

“Here’s another lesson in romance, Keith: you typically care about the people you date, especially long-term. I date a lot of people, and I don’t want to be the reason any of them hurt. So whatever image of me you have in your head…It’s probably wrong.”

Keith slumps over a little, because it feels like of like a lecture. Duh, Lance. You care about the people you date; that’s obvious, right? Shiro and Adam care about each other. Enough to move away from Keith. Enough to do that together, he guesses.

So, maybe it’s not the most intuitive thing in the whole world to Keith. Sue him! He grew up in foster care until Shiro picked him up.

Whatever. He pretends like he didn’t hear as Lance picks the phone back up and swipes without Keith’s input…He files it away, though, in the back of his mind. For manuscript purposes. Any advice is better than none.

 

. . .

 

Lance just won’t fucking leave him alone. And here Keith is, following him as they weave through a crowd of dunk frat boys and sorority girls and probably every other species of cretin on campus, making their way towards the kitchen.

Maybe now Keith won’t leave him alone, but that’s for safety reasons. Keith doesn’t do parties. They’re annoying, they stink, and alcohol never tastes as good when guzzled in the presence of fifty other sweaty college students with overdue group projects.

God fucking dammit. At least Hunk and Pidge are supposed to be here. They haven’t found them yet, but Keith still holds out hope.

A dude in a muscle tank stumbles into Keith’s shoulder, bumping him into a girl behind him. Keith growls and pushes him away, stalking after Lance.

“Hey, what’s up! Charles, lookin’ good. What’s cooking, Tiana? Loving the mohawk!”

How Lance knows practically everyone in this party, Keith doesn’t understand. He tightens his arms around himself as a girl apprehends Lance with a wet kiss on his cheek, then trots off and does the same thing to another friend.

“I’m going to leave in five seconds,” Keith yells over the pumping music. Lance finally looks at him again, and Jesus fuck. They haven’t been at this thing for ten minutes, and already his hair is plastered over his forehead and his eyes are glistening with the lights. Keith makes sure to wear his deepest frown.

“You’re not!” Lance shouts back. “Come on. Let’s get something in you and you’ll see my ways.”

He holds out a hand, but Keith looks down at it and raises an eyebrow. He just digs his nails into his arms.

“You’re so not touchy,” Lance says as they finally tumble into the kitchen. Various glass bottles litter the counters, and aluminum cans fill two coolers with the tops toppled on the floor.

“You dragged me out of my room and told me to come with you. You’re lucky I’m here in the first place,” Keith grumbles. He watches as Lance grabs two red Solo cups, a half-filled bottle of soda, and a bottle with the label ripped off.

Lance cocks a hip as he pours the liquids into the cups.

“But you came! And that’s an accomplishment I take pride in. Try this.” He holds out one of the cups and swirls its contents.

“I know what rum and coke tastes like.” Keith snatches the cup. “I’ve _been_ to parties. They’re not my thing.”

“Then you’ve never been to a good party! Don’t tell me Tall and Broad took you to office Christmas parties.”

“It’s Shiro, and no.”

“Then come on.” Lance whirls around and exits the kitchen, leaving Keith to follow him yet again.

Hypothetically, Keith can just leave. He can literally take his cup and go. It’s not like Lance will miss his presence. It’s _definitely_ not like he’s going to find the love of his life in a stupid frat party on a Thursday, no less. Keith still has a Friday class. Lance is the worst roommate and an even worse wingman.

Out in the living room, Keith can barely hear his own thoughts. He jolts when Lance swings an arm over his shoulders and pulls him close.

“I know what you’re thinking!” he says into Keith’s ear. “You’re never going to find the love of your life in a party! Your concern is noted. We’re not here to find the love of your life.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing?” Keith asks.

Lance pulls back a little and gives him one of those million-watt smiles. Sometimes, Keith wonders how many smiles Lance has in him. Keith’s smile count per week is three, max. But every time he sees Lance, he’s ready with a grin and a wink. It’s unnerving.

“I’m going to teach you how to flirt,” he explains.

“No,” Keith replies immediately. He tries to tear away, but Lance tightens his grip. “I won’t.”

"Nah, come on! It'll be fun. We can practice here. No one's going to remember you in the morning, anyway."

Lance taps his chin as he scans the throng of people, presumably to trap an unwilling participant.

The thing is, conversation and dialogue are a lot easier on paper. Keith knows what to say with his hands on the keys. The blue paladin of Voltron can flirt with ease, but Keith himself? He can't flirt with a rock. Not even a rock with cologne.

"Oh, Nyma!" Lance's voice cuts through his whirling thoughts. His arm is still over Keith’s shoulder. That's unnerving, too.

Keith looks up from the floor to see a lithe girl with bushy blonde pigtails and a sly smile saunter up to them, her own cup in hand.

“Hey, Lancey,” she practically purrs. “I heard you were back in Arizona, but I didn’t believe it until just now. What, swimming in fields of corn wasn’t enough for you?”

“A full ride scholarship couldn’t keep me in their shitty winters, Nyma,” Lance says easily. He tightens his grip on Keith and pushes him forward a little, to which Keith crosses his arms tighter and grimaces. “This is Keith! He’s a little shy, but he’s excited to meet people.”

“Lance, I swear to fucking God—”

“Three weeks into the new semester and you already got yourself a new boo?” Nyma inquires with a twinkle in her eye.

Keith’s cheeks burn almost painfully, but Lance only laughs and shakes his head.

“He’s just my roommate! And he _is_ single, and gay, so if you know anyone.” Lance waggles his eyebrows.

“Lance—” Keith protests again.

Nyma eyes Keith up and down with a hand on her hip and the other lazily swishing the contents of her own plastic red cup.

“Actually, Nyma,” Lance continues. He loosens his grip a little and leans forward. This must be flirty Lance. Even if this Nyma isn’t interested at fucking all. “Is Rolo around here somewhere?”

Her eyes light up and she grins.

“Want him?” she asks.

“Yes, please. Bring him forth. We’re doing a little experiment and he might be handy.”

She laughs and disappears into the writhing crowd.

“Don’t actually make me flirt with someone,” Keith says as he shrugs Lance’s hand off his shoulder. Even though he feels a little less stable in a place he doesn’t know without it, the weight of it was excruciating.

“That’s the point, Keithy,” Lance says. “Man, I wish Pidge and Hunk were here to see this. Alright, here are some tips. First—oh shit, hey, Rolo!”

Nyma reappears, a man at her elbow. He’s tall, taller than even Lance, with a beanie pulled over his ears despite the pulsing heat. Keith takes one look at his straw hair and long eyelashes and decides he wants nothing at all to do with what’s about to happen.

Keith turns, but Lance grips his arms in a flash and turns him right back around to face an amused Rolo. Alright. Fuck Lance. Keith downs the rest of his rum and coke, only winces slightly, and steels himself for the onslaught.

“What’s up, my man,” Rolo says, sharing a fist bump with Lance.

“Rolo, this is Keith. Keith, this is Rolo.” Lance gestures between them, and Rolo smirks and nods a hello.

“Good to meet you, dude.”

Keith does not reply. Lance sighs as loud as possible in response.

“Here’s the deal. I’m trying to teach Keith to flirt, and we need a subject. We’re trying to be very clinical about it.”

Rolo chuckles. “Cool, I’m down. Your friend’s pretty cute.”

“Rolo, you’re the best when you’re not trying to pickpocket me. Alright, Keith.”

Lance whirls him around again to face him instead of Rolo. He takes the cup out of Keith’s hand, puts it onto a table at their side, and grabs his wrists to pry them apart from his chest.

“First tip,” Lance says. “Look as open as possible. Which means hands at your sides, turned towards them, and—” He brushes Keith’s bangs from his forehead and tucks them away, forcing Keith to look up at him. Lance smiles gently. Five-hundred-thousand watts. “Hair out of your face. Try it.”

When Lance lets go of his other wrist, Keith’s immediate instinct is to bring it back up over his chest. Lance tuts, and Keith forces it back down as he turns stiffly towards Rolo, who looks on in amusement. Nyma watches with interest, which does not help the flush Keith is sure paints his face and neck. Curse his pale skin and alcohol.

“It’s like a whole new Keith!” Lance exclaims. “Alright, say hi to him. Introduce yourself.”

Rolo chuckles again. Yeah, Keith gets it. Laugh away! Keith is socially inept!

He swallows a grimace and plasters on what might be a smile.

“Hey. I’m Keith,” he bites out, words stilted. His gaze adverts to the table instead of Rolo’s eyes.

But his attempt to ignore Rolo is thwarted when Rolo puts a hand on said table and leans forward, right into his space.

“Hey, Keith,” Rolo says, a smirk under his long nose. “I’m Rolo. You don’t come to frat parties often, do you? I feel like I would remember a face like yours.”

Keith glances back up to Rolo’s eyes to find them looking right at him, half-lidded. Keith’s brain kind of short-circuits and he freezes.

“We’ll work on introductions! Next step. Compliment him, Keith.”

“What?” Keith whips around to glare at Lance.

“Yeah, you know! A compliment. Like…” He pauses, then, using a similar sultry voice, says, “I like your tattoo. It really matches this whole subtle bad boy vibe you have going on.”

“Bad boy vibe, huh?” Nyma pinches Rolo’s ear and giggles.

“I don’t—”

“You’re a writer, right?” Lance interrupts Keith. “Wax me some poetic about his eyes.”

Keith has a few choice words about eyes. Lance’s are too mirthful, dancing with a certain light Keith finds wholly unnerving. They wrinkle at the edges, two crow’s feet Keith wants to smooth out with a hard press of his thumb. His eyelashes are a dark brown, and they feather just like—

He looks back at Rolo. Blond eyelashes. Keith rifles through his mind for anything the blue paladin might say in response to eyelashes. Think, think.

“You have really beautiful eyelashes. I might make a wish on those one day,” he grits out.

For a second, stunned silence in their little group. Then, Nyma claps, Lance whistles, and Rolo even turns the smirk into a genuine grin.

“Hell yeah, Keith!” Lance says. “See? I told you you could do it! The delivery could use a little work, but you’d woo the fuck out of me with that line.”

Something strange thrums through Keith, and he glances at Lance, who claps him on the shoulder. The pick-up line tastes weird and out of place in Keith’s mouth. Still, Rolo’s grin catches Keith’s attention again, and it doesn’t feel all that bad.

“I need another drink,” Keith announces, and he abruptly swivels around and marches back towards the kitchen.

Lance catches up to him when he’s standing at the counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles are white. White as rice.

Keith needs to stop thinking about things. He needs a drink.

“Hey, whoa!” Lance says, taking the bottle of something out of Keith’s hand. “I got this. You’ve done a lot of hard work flirting tonight, my little prodigy—”

“Never fucking call me that again.”

“—and you deserve something a little special.” 

So, Lance makes him a drink. It’s fruity, Keith’s pretty sure. After that one, a group of frat boys greet Lance like they’ve known him for years, and the world blurs. Maybe they _have_ known Lance since forever. Maybe Lance is friends with everyone here, all of them since, like, middle school.

Keith has known Hunk for one year and three weeks. He’s known Pidge for one year, two weeks, and five days. He’s known Lance for three weeks.

Lance doesn’t count as a friend, though. And Lance has all these other friends. Better, older friends. Keith’s never had that kind of friend.

With Lance’s back turned, Keith downs another cup or two of something foul, and the thoughts loosen until he can throw them away. The stupid romance problems melt into the back of his mind with each one, and as long as Lance also drinks, Keith wants to drink faster.

Lance finds him again slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. He takes the cup from Keith’s hand despite his whine and holds his hand out for something.

“What?” Keith asks. The usual bite of his words lose their edge, sadly. One of the reasons he tries not to drink alcohol. He’s less fierce with alcohol, and he hates that.

“Slow down, cowboy,” Lance says.

"Is that a dig at my desert shack? I cherish my desert shack,” Keith replies, mustering up a scowl. He feels weird. Lance looks weird.

“I didn’t even know you had one.” He gestures again with an open palm, but Keith just stares at it. “Let me see your phone.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s yours,” Keith mumbles.

Still, he takes his phone out. And he really isn’t that drunk because he can still get it out of his pocket. If Keith is drunk, the task of wrenching his phone out of black skinny jeans would be as difficult as…Well, sober Keith is the one with the analogies.

Lance opens Tinder and sets it down on the table between them. Keith groans; do they _really_ have to do this right now?

“I despise you, Lance,” Keith says.

“I know. You don’t have to tell me,” Lance says. “What about this one?”

“No. Next. No. Not that one, either,” Keith sighs for each one.

“And picky Keith strikes again. Even grumpier and pickier when you’ve had…” He picks up Keith’s cup and gags a little. “Whatever the fuck that is. Come on, this guy is fine. Look at his pecs!”

“You know what? Just swipe right on your next choice if you have so much to say.”

At that, Lance holds up a hand like he’s taking an oath. The oath of Tinder.

“Trust me, Keith. I got this.”

Keith gulps down the rest of his cup and pushes it away, squeezing his eyes as the liquid burns his throat. Now he’s drunk. He was probably drunk before, but now he’s drunk enough to argue with Hunk about Voltron’s opposable thumbs. Oh, man, he can’t wait until Hunk realizes how the leg lions attach to the torso.

“Holy shit, your mullet has a match!” Lance crows, waving the phone around.

“There’s a whole person attached to this mullet,” Keith says. He leans heavily against the table and squints at the screen. Not a muscly douchebag, no asshole description, and nice eyes. He has nice eyes. Like Rolo. And Lance.

“Message him,” Lance urges as he pokes Keith in the side.

“What do I say? What do I do?” Keith needs another drink.

“Anything! Wait, not anything. Your anything still needs a little work.”

Grabbing Lance’s untouched cup, Keith opens a new message.

“Nope,” Lance says, prying it back out of Keith’s hand.

“I should tell him he has nice eyes.”

“Maybe don’t do that pick-up line for the first message. Just do the first step. Like, a variation of ‘What’s up?’”

The rules. Rules to flirting. Lance has rules to flirting, and Keith’s learned some of them, although he’s having a fucking difficult time remembering any of them right now.

His wobbly train of thought is interrupted, however, when a new, unfamiliar voice says, “Hi, what’s your name?”

Keith twists around with his fists up to find a total stranger looking down at him with a smile, leaning against the table coolly. Oh, not a threat. He’s just doing rule one. That’s rule one, right? Saying hi? Keith lower his fists.

Lance punches him in the shoulder.

“Your name, idiot!” he hisses into his ear. “Introduce yourself!”

Alright. Game time. This is the culmination of what he’s learned tonight.

“Keith. I’m Keith,” he says. It comes out dumber than he intended. Lance sighs behind him.

“I’m Joe. I just saw you sitting here and your friend took your drink from you. Can I get you another one instead?”

Keith opens his mouth to reply, but his tongue and esophagus battle against him immediately. He thinks he should say yes. Instead, the last drop of alcohol joins the war and begins clawing its way out of his stomach. Keith slaps a hand over his mouth and slumps over in the chair.

“Okay, time to go! You can take that drink if you’re so offended by it, Joey.”

Two hands pull Keith by the shoulders upright and away from the table. As Lance guides him through the throng, he attempts to help and keep his feet straight. It’s useless.

“You never told me you’re such a lightweight,” Lance says.

“You never asked,” Keith slurs as Lance heaves him over the threshold of the front door and into the heavy night air outside. It’s somehow still hot, steaming off the pavement and the bodies in the gravel of the front yard.

It hits Keith like a wall, like a concrete wall. Like a reinforced-with-steel wall.

Three steps, and he keels over and empties the contents of his whole body onto the gravel landscaping.

“That’s alright. Let it out,” Lance hums. He holds back Keith’s hair and rubs circles into his shoulder. “You should really cut the mullet off.”

Keith wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shakily sits back on his haunches. Even like this, he has the decency to feel embarrassed.

“Don’t worry, Keith. I’m taking you home now, okay?”

Keith nods, and he lets Lance pull him to his feet. He guides him with a steady hand on the small of Keith’s back most of the way back to the dorm, a steady presence that should be incredibly annoying, but somehow, Keith doesn’t mind it all that much.

He’s sure he’ll think differently in the morning.

Lance fishes the key to their dorm out of his back pocket and pulls them both inside.

“Is that drunk Keith?” a familiar voice of honey and jazz asks.

“Yep,” Lance replies. “Drunk Keith had a lot of adventures.”

The honey and jazz laughs, and Lance guides Keith into his room. The cool side of the pillow meets his cheek, and Keith sighs.

He doesn’t know how much later this happens, but Lance whispers, “Bottle of water on our night stand, shoes are off, and your phone is charging.”

Keith grumbles, smushing his face into the pillow. He hears a faint laugh, and the burning light of his room flicks off.

“Sweet dreams, Mullet.”

Sounds like something the blue paladin would say.

 

. . .

 

By the time Keith sinks ten minutes too late into his seat in the Geology 101 lecture hall, he’s 85 percent sure there’s a surgery to replace the roof of your mouth with sandpaper, and that’s what Lance took Keith to do last night.

When he awoke, Lance and Hunk were already gone. A note on the kitchenette counter covered in blue pen doodles said _out to breakfast! Did you take Tylenol yet?_

He did. Lance left some on his night stand next to the glass of water. How drunk Lance also had the wherewithal to give Keith water and Tylenol is beyond him, but it leaves him feeling equal parts uncomfortable and strangely…You know what, he doesn’t know how to name it. Feelings. They’re annoying, and Keith has geology to learn.

“The earth’s core…” the professor begins drawling, unperturbed by Keith’s harried entrance to class. Professors usually react like that. Keith isn’t the noisiest person in the room, and he can usually slip by unnoticed. It comes in handy.

Like today. Except he sinks into his seat and the girl next to him leans over and points to the page number in her textbook.

He glances over and tries on a smile for size. It must come as awful as he feels, because she furrows her thin white eyebrows and makes a sympathetic expression.

“The homework for next week is on the board,” Allura whispers.

“Thanks,” Keith mutters as he wrangles the massive textbook out of his backpack along with the required composition notebook and set of colored pencils. He opens it to the right page and promptly lets his forehead smack against a colorful chart of the earth’s layers.

“Fun night last night?” she asks with a teasing lilt.

“You could say that,” Keith says when he picks his head up again.

“Well, it’s a yes or no question.” The professor points to something, and 76 students promptly flip to the next page of the textbook. “I’m going to assume that’s a yes.”

Truthfully, Keith doesn’t know the answer. He regrets everything about it— _especially_ the sandpaper mouth. But. To reiterate. He doesn’t want to think about it. He wants to think about the characteristics of the earth’s crust. _Continental versus oceanic,_ the professor lazily scrawls on the board. That’s something Keith can understand.

He remembers to flip the textbook page.

“So, what did you do?” Allura asks under her breath, loud enough for only Keith to hear. “You’re usually quite the punctual student.”

Keith frowns and keeps his eyes trained on the whiteboard.

“My annoying roommate forced me to go to a frat party,” he says.

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Was it not a fun night, then?”

“No, well—” He takes a breath and presses a hand over his knee under the table to still it. “Lance, that’s his name. He—”

A small gasp cuts him off, and Keith glances up to see Allura’s pink lips agape and lined eyes wide as saucers.

“You’re Keith!” she says.

“Uh…Yes?”

Keith peers at her, until it dawns on him, too.

 _Duh._ There’s only so many girls named Allura in this world, and the Allura that sits beside Keith in Geology 101 also happens to be—

“Lance’s new roommate Keith!” she repeats, clapping her hands together. The student on her other side glances up and shakes their head. “What a coincidence! He’s talked about you before.”

“He has?” That’s weird. They barely talk to each other—until recently, or whatever.

“Yes! Why didn’t I make that connection before? Of course, you’re that Keith. And I’m—”

“His ex-girlfriend, yeah. He’s talked about you before, too.”

“Of course, he has,” she says with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Only good things, I’m sure.”

“Er, yeah,” Keith stutters.

“While oceanic crust is composed more of…”

The professor’s drawl interrupts them, and they both focus on the whiteboard, where he draws with pink marker. Seventy-six students pick up their pink colored pencils. Keith’s head pounds.

“By the way,” Allura whispers. “Anything you say about Lance within the confines of this classroom will be confidential.”

Keith snorts and suppresses the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Alright. Likewise,” he says. They all draw a semi-circle with a blue colored pencil.

“I already thought we would be friends,” she continues. “But as Lance McClain’s ex-girlfriend and his new roommate, I think we’ll get along splendidly.”

Red marker. Red colored pencil. Keith lets himself smile, despite how fucking weird that is.

“…you can see, continental crust is tougher and thicker. The difference produces…”

 

. . .

 

Alright. So, Lance might have a little bit of a problem. It’s no biggie, really. Just a little tiny problem. So insignificant and miniscule, in fact, that it’s totally not the reason he’s slumped over in a booth at a shitty breakfast diner, nursing a hangover with endless pancakes and bacon, with his head face down on the syrup-sticky table.

“Lance,” Hunk says disapprovingly. “Get your head off the table.”

“Hunk,” Lance whines the second he takes his head off, rubbing it where the syrup stuck. Ew. Gross. He’s not doing that again. “I have a problem.”

“Just so you know, I’ve made a bet with Pidge on what you’re about to tell me, so please make me five dollars and two sticks of gum richer,” Hunk says.

Lance stares. “Two sticks of gum?”

“It’s what we had in our pockets at the time.” He shakes his shoulders and sets his own utensils down, a half-eaten bite of pancake still on the fork tongs. “Alright. As your best friend and support system, please tell me what’s on your mind.”

Lance sighs, looking despondently down at his plate. He needs to tell Hunk the truth. This isn't something he's going to be able to keep to himself. If Lance hides this in his chest, tucks it away next to his heart, _something_ is going to explode.

Which is why he's going to tell Hunk now, because then the problem will be out in the world, and it will disappear. Like it usually does when Lance tells Hunk about his problems.

"It's a tiny problem," he says. "Like, super tiny. The size of a proton."

"Electrons are smaller."

"Okay, it's electrode sized."

"Mm. Electrodes are Pokémon, and that's significantly bigger than a proton."

"Hunk! Be supportive! I have a problem, but it's not a big one, and my plan is to tell you said problem so you can make it disappear.”

Hunk dutifully lapses into silence, leaning forward slightly so Lance can see the full force of his big brown eyes and genuine expression.

Lance inhales deeply and picks out his words. He can't mess up on this. If he tells the wrong problem, it'll never go away.

"I think," he begins. "I think Keith is cute."

"Wrong problem," Hunk replies instantly. Lance groans. "You've already told me that, man!"

"Okay, fine! Last night at the party, Keith actually said, like, a good pick-up line, and my first reaction was to think ‘Hey, I wish he used that on me.’ Which means I have a very tiny, inconsequential crush on my new roommate and your friend of a year, Keith Kogane."

Hunk squints, then nods with satisfaction.

"Close enough. First of all, thank you for admitting that to me, buddy. I'm proud of you, which I say every time you have a crush on someone."

"…And?"

"Second of all, you are not making Keith one of your crushes." He reaches over the table to poke Lance threateningly in the chest. "I told you, he's like a skittish horse. I've only _just_ gotten him to trust me, and you're not pulling any moves on him I don't approve."

Lance deflates and picks up his fork again, shoving a bite of pancake in his mouth. Hunk's warnings are very sound and all, but he doesn't really need to give them in the first place. That's why Lance is here. Because when Lance had his arm around Keith's shoulder last night, it was almost like he wanted to keep it there _forever_ and that can never happen again.

He can manage an inconsequential crush for now. It's not a big deal. And he knows nothing will come of it. Still, though. It sucks a little that it's Lance's first time back in Arizona after wasting away in Nebraska for a whole two semesters, and his first crush is his off limits and socially inept roommate. For which Lance is a wingman, because Keith has to fall in love by the end of the semester, and the guy he falls for will _not_ be Lance.

Thus, Lance stuffs his mouth with more shitty breakfast diner pancakes and envisions himself personally giving a manifestation of the inconsequential crush to Hunk, who then smushes it beneath his boot heel. That's a therapy thing, right? Visually imagining letting something go will let it go in real life.

"Don't worry, Hunk," Lance says as he swallows his bite. "That's not gonna happen. I already know he's off limits. Besides, we're not even friends. He hates me!"

"He doesn't hate you.”

"You don't know that."

"I think I've gathered over the past year what it looks like when Keith hates someone. This isn't it."

Lance huffs and slumps over again. He stops himself before his sticky forehead hits the table, but only just.

“That doesn’t help me, Hunk,” he says. “If Keith doesn’t hate me, I have less of a reason to not act on it.”

“Okay, then he hates you.”

“And that doesn’t help me, either, because now I know you’re lying to me!”

Hunk shrugs, like ‘What do you want me to do?!’ Lance doesn’t know, okay? He has an inconsequential crush on a very off-limits roommate, and he doesn’t really know what to do except tell Hunk and let it go.

“Also,” Lance grumbles. “I’m pretty sure Keith has a date next week. You and Pidge better be supportive to him, and also give me a stick of gum.”

Hunk furrows his thick eyebrows and puts his fork down. “Keith has a date next week?”

 

. . .

 

“Lance,” Keith says threateningly as he waves his phone. “What did you do?!”

Lance rolls over on the futon, letting his vintage (read: cheap and hipster and indicative of asshole-ish behavior) Gameboy controller drop onto his chest.

“Oh,” Lance says, ever the picture of nonchalance. “I messaged your match back last night.”

“You did _what?!”_

“You were half passed out and I guessed your password! I messaged him back for you, because you specifically told him he had nice eyes when I told you not to, and I had to save the conversation.”

This guy just keeps getting worse and worse. Never mind Lance gave Keith Tylenol and water. Never mind Lance tucked him in. He also deliberately went into his phone and fucking messaged someone on Tinder. And then, and then in the middle of class, he gets a message that says _Can’t wait until next week then!_ And Keith opens the message thread to find out Lance somehow set up a whole ass date with someone he couldn’t pick out from a lineup if he tried.

“Lance,” Hunk sighs.

“What? It’s fine! It’s one date, and I did my best to impersonate you.”

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for how to fucking reply to that. What the _fuck_.

Lance beats him. God, he’s so infuriating.

“So, it’s just a casual café on Mill Ave. Smoothies and what have you. You just put on a nicer shirt and those great black skinny jeans you have and you’re fine.”

“No, no way.”

Lance sits up, the Gameboy falling to his lap. “Relax, Keith. You have a whole week to psych yourself up. Chill for now.”

He waves his hand like it’s nothing. Has Lance forgotten? Keith’s never fucking _done this before._

“I hate you,” he repeats, because it’s worth repeating. Then he shoves his phone in his pocket, picks up the backpack he threw on the floor, and marches into his bedroom.

“Good job, Lance!” comes a muffled shout through the door Keith slams shut. A second later, a knock. Keith grunts loudly in response, and the door creaks open again.

“You’re not that asshole, are you?”

“Nope, just ol’ Hunk. Hey, listen, don’t worry about the date. It’ll be chill! I mean, I threw up in the restroom on my first date with Shay, but you don’t have my stomach, so it’ll probably be just fine.”

Keith crosses his arms. “I appreciate the effort. Can I be alone?”

“Oh, good! That’s a compliment!” Hunk says, eyes brightening, though he begins to nervously twiddle his thumbs. “Before I leave you alone, I was wondering. Keith. I have to do an essay in, er, robotics class and design a mecha robot. You’re one of my best pals, and, um, would it be cool to look through your Voltron stuff for inspiration?”

Keith blinks, some of the dread on his shoulders dissipating. “Like what?”

“Oh, you know. All the robot stuff.”

“So, all of it?”

Hunk shrugs his shoulders. “I guess?”

The thought definitely crosses Keith’s mind that there’s Google and a thousand mecha robots to draw inspiration on, but he sees the pleading look in Hunk’s puppy dog eyes, and he deflates.

“Fine. Whatever. But not now.” He raises his voice enough to make sure Lance can hear. “I have to message back this _stupid_ guy about a _stupid_ smoothie date I never fucking asked for!”

“I said relax, Keith!” comes Lance’s answering shout.

Keith rolls his eyes so hard they might fall onto the floor. He ushers Hunk out of his room while Hunk thanks Keith profusely and shuts his door with finality.

 _Fuck_ Lance McClain.

 

. . .

 

A week, and Keith has not chilled one bit. Lance forced Keith to talk to the guy on Tinder over the week, but fuck, is Aaron (his name, according to the app) vapid. He still has kind of nice eyes, though. And what if Keith falls in love with him? He can’t pass up the opportunity because this guy’s idea of a date is a smoothie bar—because no, it’s not just a casual café like Lance described.

Not that Keith has any experience in picking date locations. Or going on dates. Or finding the right outfit for dates. Or talking on dates. Or existing on—

“Relax, Keith, dude,” Lance says, his voice as cool as ever. Like a balm. He puts his hand over Keith’s jiggling knee and stills it. Keith gulps and stares at the ceiling. “Pidge, Hunk, and I will be right here at home. You have our numbers and know the emergency codes. Pidge vetted him and his only crime is a minor offense of a fake I.D.”

“Pidge vetted him?”

“She shows her affection in strange ways.”

Despite his predicament, Keith huffs a strained laugh. From the beanbag shoved into the corner of the room, Pidge throws up a peace sign and beams wickedly.

“I’d rather be home,” Keith says.

“You spend all of your time at home. You’re going on this date.”

“What if I’m allergic to smoothies?”

“I saw you drink one the other day.”

“Lance—”

“Keith!” he interrupts, squeezing the hand on his knee before letting go. “You’re not wiggling your way out of this social interaction. It’s your first date ever! Come on, be a little excited.”

“Keith’s all grown up,” Hunk says with a hand over his chest, wiping fake tears from his eyes.

“Alright,” Lance says. “It’s thirty ‘til, and you have to Uber over there. Come on.”

Lance yanks Keith from the couch and drags him to the door. Keith kind of feels like sinking into the ground, never to be seen again.

“Remember, confidence is key. Look him in the eyes. Say his name frequently to ensure interest. And all those other things.”

“Right, whatever,” Keith says.

Lance opens the door and promptly shoves him into the hallway, yelling, “Now, go!”

“You’re a paladin of Voltron!” Pidge cheers from inside the dorm.

Keith rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. That’s a thing Hunk and Pidge insist on doing lately: calling each other ‘paladins of Voltron’ even if that _also_ makes Keith want to sink into the ground, never to be seen again.

Anyway. To the Smoothie Bar. Or Keith’s grave.

 

. . .

 

Mill Avenue is the social playground of the tens of thousands of ASU students. A street lined with bars and restaurants Keith never really bothers to explore on his own. Like everyone else, he’s been here at least a few times. Hunk and Pidge have dragged him to the Shrieking Shake Shack, and Shiro’s sneaked him a few drinks.  But never for a date, and never at the Smoothie Bar.

It’s not any plain Jamba Juice. No, this restaurant is an _experience._ Smoothies for all three courses. Smoothie recipes that rival Willy Wonka himself. A waiter in a crisp button-up seating a dolled-up group who are all going to drink smoothies for the next hour and pretend they enjoy it. Is Keith projecting? Probably.

He ducks into the soothing chatter. Aaron should be around here somewhere. Blonde spiky hair, out of control stubble, and eyes that were nice at some point…There.

“Keith!” he waves from a table halfway across the room. Keith ignores the questioning look from a waitress carrying a silver tray of smoothies and strides forward, hopefully appearing as confident as Lance tells him to be.

But Keith isn’t Lance. Lance can be as confident as he wants, but Keith’s hands buzz in the pocket of his jeans—black and skinny—and he can’t figure out if his lips are forming a smile or not. He’d venture a guess at the latter.

“It’s Keith, right?” Aaron asks when Keith stands before their table. Up close, his eyes are kind of bland. Blue, not but…an _interesting_ blue, you know? Not the kind to write about. Not worth describing.

“Yeah, it is,” Keith says. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth like he’s been force-fed peanut butter, but he forces himself to say something else. “…And you’re Aaron.”

“The one and only,” he says. He gestures to the seat on the other side of the table. “Cute shirt, by the way.”

“Er, thanks,” Keith stutters. His cheeks heat considerably; he won’t in a million years reveal that Lance picked it out, citing it as the least grubby shirt in the pile at the back of Keith’s drawer. “You, too, I guess…Aaron.”

It’s not. Sure, he isn’t as muscular as the 'gym rats' Keith usually sees hoarding the weights, but his shirt is a particularly awful polo in a sickening shade of green. Pidge likes to wear green, but even she would more accurately label this color as the time Hunk threw up behind the Shrieking Shake Shack while in the throes of the flu. Keith fends off a shudder at the memory; Her-mint-e Granger never looked so unappetizing.

Aaron doesn’t hear any of Keith’s inner monologue. Instead, he flashes a grin and picks up the smoothie menu, beginning to chat about anything, everything, and literally nothing at all. After they order their first smoothies (Keith isn’t kidding about the three-course smoothie meals. The military should seriously consider the Smoothie Bar to develop rations), he starts yammering about some sort of accounting exam.

"So, yeah, I stayed up until, like, three a.m. studying for that exam," he says, waving the menu in his hand. "You wouldn't believe the stuff the professor likes to cram into an exam. I mean, how many equations about profit margins can you hypothetically do in the span of a class?"

Keith nods, hoping he looks at least half interested. God, accounting. There’s a reason Keith chose creative writing.

"I guess profit margins are cool, though. Like, that's what you actually earn, right? And if I'm starting my own business one day, then I should know it. But I think after one problem on profit margins, I've learned all there is to know! You know?"

"Yeah," Keith agrees. He doesn’t know.

"But enough about me! You have bags under your eyes, too. Why were you up late last night?"

Blinking, Keith touches the thin skin under his eyes. He didn't realize they were that noticeable. They usually are, but people don’t normally point them out.

"Just something for my screenwriting class," he says. "Had to write three pages of an action scene."

Aaron nods, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

"Cool, cool," he says. "So, you really are a writing major?"

"I mean...yeah."

"Oh, okay. Well, three pages doesn't sound nearly as hard as cramming for an accounting exam. There were more than profit margins. I had to memorize so much vocabulary! Did you know that...?"

And with that, Keith checks out of the conversation. He doesn’t bother telling Aaron about all the vocab in creative fiction. Instead, he mentally crosses him off the list of People Keith Could Possibly Fall in Love With To Avoid Flunking College.

Dammit. This is taking more effort than Keith wants. It shouldn’t be _this_ hard to find someone to fall for, right?

A waitress sets their smoothies down along with a small appetizer Aaron evidently ordered while waiting for Keith. He scarfs it down as he talks about accounting. So. Much. Accounting.

"So, do you still build robots?" he asks. The sudden question shakes Keith out of his reverie.

"Huh?" It takes a moment of filing through memories to realize that, oh shit, he asked over messages what the second picture was about. Keith at a robotics competition. 

"Er, I never really built them," Keith says. "That was…last year."

"What about the two in your profile picture? The small nerd and the big guy.”

“You mean Pidge and Hunk?”

Aaron snorts mid-smoothie sip.

“Their names kind of fit their weird appearances. At least you don’t look like that.”

“Like what?” Keith narrows his eyes. His pulse quickens as Aaron shrugs and shoves the last of the appetizer in his mouth.

“You know, like those annoying nerds that are only good for cheating off of.” Aaron laughs, and it becomes a witch’s howl in Keith’s ears. “Oh man, I bet it was irritating having to go with them—”

“I’m actually still friends with them,” Keith interrupts, fists clenched in his lap. “So, if you mind not insulting them, that would be great.”

Rueful satisfaction joined bubbling fury as Aaron’s chewing slows and his cheeks color in a way that grossly contrasts with the Her-mint-e Granger puke shirt.

“Oh, my bad,” he says. “I just kind of ruined that, didn’t I?”

It would be endearing if…actually, fuck that. If this is what dating entails—horrible conversations with mediocre people who like to talk about accounting and insult the few people Keith can call his friends—he wants no part.

“I gotta go piss,” Keith blurts out, shoving his chair back.

Aaron just fucking shrugs again. Keith’s fist twitches with the intense desire to drive it straight into his stubbly chin. Instead, he books it, skidding around table corners until he can lock himself in a bathroom stall.

The restroom smells like fruit and frozen yogurt. Keith pulls out his phone and taps Loverboy Lance’s text thread.

From Keith. _Red alert. He’s a douchebag._

Keith spends a whole minute and a half anxiously tapping his feet in the stupid stall, only freezing when the door opens and someone shuffles inside. Finally, finally, his phone pings.

From Lance. _I know exactly what to do. Stay there and make nice and go along with whatever I say_

From Keith. _No, I just want to know how to end it_

From Lance. _That’s what I’m doing!!! Chiiiilll I’ll be right there_

That sounds unnecessarily ominous. Keith doesn’t trust it at all, but once the Lance Ball starts rolling, everyone is helpless to stop it. He refrains from banging his head against the stall.

Keith flushes the toilet because it might be weird to the other guy standing at the urinals if he doesn’t. The other guy probably doesn’t care. A minute later, Keith slides back into his seat across from Aaron, who twirls the straw in his empty smoothie cup.

Whatever Lance is planning, Keith hopes it happens soon. He wonders if it will ban him from the restaurant.

 

. . .

 

Over the years, Lance has learned Hunk and Pidge have virtually zero boundaries. When Lance first met them, way back yonder in middle school, Hunk took apart Lance’s watch to compare digital to his own analog, and Pidge went through his school-issued agenda and color-coded each individual assignment to subject. Likewise, Lance talked their ears off about everything—and he means everything, from girls to the minutiae of sports to every dumb thing his siblings did that day.

It’s how they became inseparable. It’s what Lance so desperately missed in fuck all Nebraska. You can talk to corn stalks all you want, but none of them will reply like this:

“Please, Lance, tell me again about the way Keith puts his hair in a ponytail when he’s writing,” Pidge drawls, her fingers never slowing their frantic yet methodical typing.

“I regret ever saying anything about my stupid inconsequential problem,” Lance mutters. “But, like, it’s honestly one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

“You know what?” Hunk says. “I’ve missed this. Pidge and me listening to you ramble about someone. It’s not the same over Skype.”

“I agree, Hunk,” Pidge says. She looks up, the laptop glare flashing on her glasses. “But be careful. This is Keith we’re talking about here.”

“Yeah, whatever, I know.” Lance smushes his cheeks with the palms of his hands and says, “It’ll go away, anyway. They always do.”

By the way, Lance isn’t just thinking about boundaries for no reason. He’s literally sitting on Keith’s bed, watching the two of them scour through his notebooks and digital devices.

“You found anything in there, Hunk?” Pidge asks.

Hunk turns the notebook in his hands upside down and shakes it, then sets it aside with a sigh of dejection.

“No,” he says. “Nothing in that one. Just high school essays.”

“What are you guys even looking for?” Lance asks. He leans over and swipes one of the notebooks, a dreary black composition with wrinkled yellow pages.

“This is all of Keith’s old writing notebooks over the years,” Hunk explains, slapping the side of a cardboard box. “It’s one of the only things he brought to our first dorm. There’s gotta be _something_ in here about Voltron. There’s just gotta be.”

“Voltron? What do you need his Voltron stuff for?”

Lance leafs through the composition. Judging by the handwriting, it’s probably elementary, maybe? On one page is a colorful illustration of a fire-breathing dragon accompanied by a peculiar fireman wielding an extinguisher. Man, Keith has a really fucking strange imagination in that broody, stoic head of his.

“You’d never guess what he writes just by looking at him,” Lance muses, skimming over a few paragraphs about the brigade of firemen hired to defeat the dragon. He flips to another page, where young Keith seems to write about his mom, a fantastical brave witch.

And then he closes the notebook, because he’s never heard Keith talk about his parents before, and honestly? It leaves an uneasy itch in the pit of his stomach.

Hunk tosses another notebook on the bed, and Lance opens that one instead. The handwriting jumps forward to high school Keith, but no mention of Voltron.

“Mission accomplished on my end,” Pidge says with a triumphant smirk, pumping her fist in the air. “All of Keith’s _Voltron_ documents obtained and transported to my laptop. Thank you, Hunk, for asking him.”

“Again, not quite sure what’s going on,” Lance says.

“Don’t worry about it, Lance.” Pidge snaps Keith’s laptop shut and sets it delicately back on his desk, the same askew position it was in when they first entered. “What you _really_ need to worry about is how you’re going to handle being Keith’s wingman when all you can think about is his many different greasy hairstyles.”

“Not a problem, Pidge,” Lance says, waving a blasé hand. “Like I said, it’ll disappear in a few weeks. There’s no way my opinions about Keith’s eyes, how pretty they are even when he’s angry at me—”

“Get to the point!”

“There’s _no_ way that’s on the same level as the goal to get Keith to fall in love with someone. And, you know, I’m still pretty sure he genuinely hates me.”

Hunk sighs and gets up from the floor, digging for the fifth time around Keith’s room. He goes so far as to peek behind the dresser, and almost shrieks, “Aha!”

“What? What is it? Voltron itself?” Pidge asks, craning her head.

Hunk sticks his hands behind the dresser and drags out what must be the biggest cork board Lance has _ever_ seen. Hunk props it up, fully displaying the absolute mess of index cards, crude drawings, and red string held up by what must be almost a hundred tacks.

“He’s insane,” Pidge says, voice filled with awe.

“What even is this?” Lance asks. He reads an index card covered in blue dots. _Blue paladin defeats antagonist but he doesn’t remember it. Or does he?!_

“An outline? I think?” Hunk says. They all peer closer, and Hunk points to a drawing in the center. “Is that what I think it is?”

“By God, Hunk. I think we’ve found it.”

Carefully, Hunk unpins the drawing and holds it up. It’s a robot of five colors, with feet and hands that might just be…lions. Are those lions? Those are definitely the lions Keith talks about.

Before Hunk or Pidge can reply, Lance’s phone buzzes on the bedspread. He dives to grab it as the screen lights up.

From Keith. _Red alert. He’s a douchebag._

“And who’s that texting you?” Hunk asks. “Someone who genuinely hates you?”

Lance pouts as he rolls off the bed and pokes Hunk harshly in the arm. “It’s a red alert, dude.”

“On the first date? Of course Keith has that kind of luck,” Pidge says. “Just tell him to be his regular harsh Keith self and foot the guy with the bill.”

“No,” Lance says slowly, chewing his lower lip. Then, a sly smile quirks the corners of his mouth. “No, he needs the support of his wingman right now.”

He types out a quick reply as he hurries through the apartment, finding shoes, keys, and wallet.

From Lance. _I know exactly what to do. Stay there and make nice and go along with whatever I say_

“You guys better clear out of his room by the time we get back!” Lance yells through the apartment, one foot already out the door.

“It’ll be like we’ve never been here, Loverboy!” Pidge calls back.

Lance slips out the door.

From Keith. _No, I just want to know how to end it_

From Lance. _That’s what I’m doing!!! Chiiiilll I’ll be right there_

 

. . .

 

Ten minutes later, Keith gets his answer.

“Ready for round two?” Aaron asks, gesturing to the smoothies with a waggle in his eyebrows. In the boxing ring, maybe.

Keith opens his mouth to reply, but someone else entirely beats him to it.

“Keith?” a trembling voice asks. Aaron’s eyes widen as he takes stock of what can be nothing else but Lance McClain standing behind Keith.

Keith twists around in his chair. Lance gawks at him, his usually jovial face taut with offense.

“Keith, what are you doing here?” Lance asks, crossing his arms. “Is this—what are you—who is that?”

Keith has seen enough movies to know how this will play out. Devious Lance with a plan strikes again. He suppresses a smirk and rises from his chair, putting his hands in front of him.

“It isn’t what it looks like,” Keith pleads. “We’re just—”

“Like hell it isn’t! You’re drinking smoothies with another man!”

“Please, Lance—”

The other smoothie patrons pause mid-sip. Keith glances back at Aaron, who’s shrunk in on himself, clutching his drink and cowering from the attention of the restaurant.

“How could you?!” Lance cries. “After all we’ve done together? All the smoothies you made me? I thought we were something!”

“Lance, we are—”

“I can’t believe you! We’re talking about this right now!”

Keith winces and turns around to apologize to Aaron.

“I’m so sorry—ow!”

Lance pinches his ear and drags him backwards.

“I’ll text you!” Keith calls.

“Yeah, no need,” Aaron says. He looks thoroughly embarrassed, cheeks and ears as cherry red as the smoothie in front of him. Keith’s twinge of guilt evaporates the instant he remembers Aaron’s snide remarks, and he lets himself be yanked out of the restaurant by Lance, who cusses him out all the way.

When the glass door slams shut and the restaurant hum dies into the noise of Mill, Lance lets go.

“Wait! Not here! People are looking!” he gasps. Indeed, a few people in the restaurant peer through the windows to get a glimpse at the fighting couple. Lance takes him by the shoulder and drags him farther up the street, into the lights of a restaurant a few doors down.

“You’re an asshole,” Keith wheezes, rubbing his aching ear. “I could have done without the ear pulling.”

“But think of the theatrics, Keith!” Lance crows. “Oh man, I’ve always wanted to do that. That guy’s face! He was fucking mortified!”

Keith joins on the laughter, letting a grin practically split his face in two.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“I think a thanks is in order,” Lance says, looking way too smug. “After all, I just saved you from a red alert via fake smoothie-based romance.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but he can’t find it in himself to be malicious. Instead, he lets his arms fall to his sides, trying and failing to suppress his smile.

“Fine, fine,” he says. “Thanks.”

“And that,” Lance says, taking Keith by the shoulders, “is the first time you’ve thanked me for anything since we’ve known each other.”

“Yeah, well, don’t count on it.”

Keith ducks out of Lance’s arms and backs away to the restaurant.

“I’m fucking starving,” he says, pointing to the sign. “I’m getting a wizard-themed burger before I go back.”

“Oh, hell yeah. Sounds like a fucking plan!” Lance rubs his hands together and follows him in.

When they stand next to each other in line, perusing the menu for various shakes and burgers, Lance bumps him gently in the shoulder.

“Why was he a red alert?” he asks.

Keith presses his lips together and glances away.

“He insulted my friends,” he replies. Then, he glares at Lance and says, “And I hate dating.”

For once, Lance puts his hands up and doesn’t argue with him. He’ll let Keith stew in his romantic anger for the night. Because Lance would do the same thing if Aaron happened to him. Of that, he’s sure.

 

. . .

 

"Hi, my name's Mason."

"Hey, I'm Lee."

"What's up? The name's Preet."

Here’s how the next three weeks go: three dates, three times Lance doesn’t party on a Saturday night, and three times Keith complains to Allura in class under their strict secrecy rules.

Keith sits across the table from a well-dressed man with a groomed and oiled beard, who smells distinctly as if someone dumped him in a vat of oil made from Pabst Blue Ribbon and slid him directly into his seat.

"Hi, Mason," Keith grits out. He's already over this, but he has to be polite. For Lance. "Keith."

When the waitress checks on their table, Mason takes one look at the menu and says, “I’ll have a pint of your Hoppy Bunny IPA.”

“Just an ale,” Keith says, to which Mason wrinkles his nose.

“IPAs are the superior beer, if you’re going to go to a bar for it,” he sniffs. “A beer isn’t complete without the full palette the hops give. But, I mean, an ale is okay.”

And Keith just barely squashes the urge to shove hops right up his nose.

Mason runs a hand through his beard and adjusts his round horn-rimmed glasses. "I don’t think I mentioned this before, but I’m a writer, too.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. Oh, a writer. Joy.

“Cool. That makes two of us, obviously,” he says instead. After a moment, it’s clear Mason is waiting for him to ask. Keith glances to the ceiling for a prayer to whatever deity carved Shiro’s abs, and asks, “What do you write?”

“I’m a scriptwriter,” he replies instantly with an air of forced nonchalance. “Not for features or anything. I prefer the Indie scene, you know? I like to write films about the state of the human condition. The depths of the psyche. How far we can be pushed until something snaps. And global warming.”

“Wow,” Keith says, not bothering to keep the bored scowl off his face. “I write about mecha robot lions who form a larger robot to defeat the forces of evil and save the universe. For kids. Not sure about the state of the human condition.”

Mason’s jaw drops a little before he snaps it shut and just _barely_ conceals an eye roll. Alright, that’s it. Keith is mentally checking out of the conversation. When the waitress sets his ale down, he downs a quarter of it in one go and checks this one off the list.

 

 

The door slams shut behind him, and he barely sees Lance in the kitchenette before he throws the take-out container on the counter and stalks off to his bedroom. Before he can slam that one shut, however, a hand catches the edge.

“Whoa, whoa!” Lance says, forcing it open again. “How’d this one go? Was he Mr. Right?”

“He told me ale beer is for the weak,” Keith huffs.

“Ew. Well, call me boneless, because Bahama Mama is where it’s at.”

Keith snorts a laugh, then attempts to close the door again. When Lance doesn’t let up, he relents, looking up into his genuinely curious eyes.

“The take-out is for you,” Keith says, gesturing helplessly back to the kitchen.

“Good, because I ran out of ramen packets.” Lance grins and backs away from the door. “I was actually just planning on pigging out on some ice cream before I head to bed. You wanna join and tell me about Mr. Tough-Beers-Only?”

Keith glances unsure between his room and the common area until they land on what might be a glimmer of hope in Lance’s eyes and the tilt of his chin. He’s got a sharp jaw, Keith notes in the back of his mind. No sooner does the thought pop into existence than he promptly kicks it away.

Sue Keith if he compares oil beard Mason to Lance. That’s natural, right? He sees one mediocre man for an hour, and he comes home to…yeah, no, he kicks that thought away, too.

“Well?” Lance asks.

“Um,” Keith stutters. He gingerly steps over the threshold of his room again. “Sure.”

 

 

“He doesn’t leave me alone,” Keith mutters into the half-dark of the classroom. The projector clips through slides of tectonic plate diagrams, but Keith barely sees them pass. “Every time I come home, he wants to know about my day or talk about his own. And I want to _sleep_.”

Allura snickers at his side, her pink pen idly doodling lines in the margins of her neat Cornell-style notes.

“I assume it’s because you are friends,” she hums. “Lance loves to know about his friends. It’s just his way of showing he cares about you.”

“Yeah, but—” Keith cuts himself off with a growl and grabs a green colored pencil along with the rest of the class.

“But he also knows his boundaries. If I was too tired or just otherwise unwilling, he always let me go if I wanted. Which means you might just be happy to tell him about your day.”

“No,” Keith protests. “Not true.”

“Well, how was your date?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Bad.” Keith switches pencils and frowns. “But Lance smuggled ice cream in our dorm without Pidge noticing, so it was fine.”

If he glances away from the thick blue line he scribbles onto his paper, he would notice how Allura pauses in her drawing, her glossy lips curling into a slow smile.

“And you have another date?”

“Don’t wanna talk about that. Don’t wanna think about plate tectonics either,” Keith mumbles.

“Well,” Allura whispers, leaning closer to Keith when a student to her right shoots her an annoyed look. “Did you know Lance had braces?”

“No fucking way.”

 

 

The second date is even shorter than the first. Keith finds the guy where they agreed to meet in front of the bowling alley, and promptly wishes he had gotten lost instead.

“Hey, I’m Lee,” the boy says, but confusion clouds his expression. He chews his lip, glances over Keith’s shoulder, then asks, “Are you…Keith?”

“Uh, yeah,” Keith replies. “Keith from Tinder.”

“Oh, well.” Lee rocks on the heels of his worn sneakers and shoves his hands into his jean pockets. “Uh, this is a little embarrassing. You should take better pictures for your profile.”

Keith furrows his eyebrows, obviously losing something in this conversation. “Why?”

“I, uh, thought you were the other guy in the photo.”

“…My brother?”

“Yeah. The hot one.”

The…holy shit. What an asshole.

“Okay. Cool. I’m gonna go,” Keith says, backing away in the same direction from which he came.

“Wait!” Lee steps forward and has the audacity to smile. “Could you hook me up, though? What’s your brother’s name?”

And Keith doesn’t have the control _not_ to spit out a “Fuck you” and stalk away.

 

 

Lance gets a kick out of that when Keith returns way earlier than usual with flushed cheeks and a permanent cringe expression.

“Wait, no, he really?!” he wheezes again, doubled over on the futon.

Keith crosses his arms and attempts to burrow himself into the opposite side’s cushions, red blazing across his cheeks. He just knows he looks like a damn idiot, and he hates that.

“Oh, man.” Lance wipes away a tear and stifles another laughing fit. “He’s right. Holy shit. You need new photos.”

He sets the carton of ice cream on the coffee table, and before Keith can react, he whips out his phone and aims it directly at Keith.

“No, Lance!” Keith whines, bringing his arms over his face.

“We can’t let this happen again!” Lance says. He tugs Keith’s hands away, and Keith hears a distinct shutter sound as he wiggles away and off the futon. “Come here. I have to show the world you’re still as attractive as Tall and Broad!”

“Don’t call him that!” Keith growls, darting away when Lance catapults off the futon after him. “Lance, no! No pictures!”

“Just one, I swear. One more!”

Keith careens through the kitchenette, Lance hot on his tail. He hears shutter sounds behind him as he jumps over the back of the futon, putting it between himself and Lance. When he whips around and puts his fists up to fight, the million-watt smile crinkling Lance’s eyes instead of the mirth a few seconds ago does _not_ catch Keith off guard.

“Well, this doesn’t look good,” Lance tuts. “We can’t prove you’re still attractive looking like that.”

Keith drops his hands and glances down at himself. “Looking like what?” he asks indignantly.

Lance rounds the futon and abandons the camera just long enough to fiddle with the collar of Keith’s shirt and smooth the wrinkled front.

“There,” he says, voice quieter than before. “Wait, nope.” He reaches out again, slower this time, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind Keith’s ear. “There.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Keith mutters. It doesn’t have as much bite as he likes, but no one’s ever fixed his shirt like that before. It leaves him feeling unbalanced—and he decides he hates it. Lance’s light touch still burns the shell of his ear, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Keith just…isn’t a touchy guy. So it’s strange to suddenly have, well, a _friend_ like Lance, who touches a lot.

“You always say stuff like that,” Lance says. “What do I have to do to prove to you I’m a good person?”

Keith narrows his eyes at Lance’s earnest expression. He hates that, too. This was much easier when Keith didn’t have to interact with the guy.

“Don’t take my picture.”

Lance cocks a grin and shakes his head. “No can do, Keithy. This is my one and thus far only chance to prove you’re an actual vampire.”

The response is so unexpected Keith barks a laugh. A shutter sound goes off, and when his laugh dies out, he finds Lance’s camera directly on him.

“Not a vampire,” Lance says, staring at the photo with an expression Keith can’t decipher. He clears his throat and shoves the phone in his pocket. “Uh, still not as attractive as Tall and Broad, though. Shame we can’t fix that.”

Keith rolls his eyes and drops onto the futon with crossed arms. “Still hate you,” he grumbles.

“That gets harder to believe every day,” Lance replies with a wicked grin. Keith bites his lip and refuses to look at him. “Anyway. Since you’re here early: Mario Kart?”

“You’re going down, McClain.”

“In your fucking dreams, Kogane,” Lance laughs, and he tosses Keith a controller.

 

 

Allura can’t stifle a giggle about it either come Monday. She slaps her palm over her mouth and leans over her pretty pink notes.

“Ms. Allura?” the professor calls sternly from the front of the classroom. “Is there something you want to share?”

“No!” she gasps. “It’s just—how do you explain the presence of sea creature fossils in the Grand Canyon if it’s on a continental plate?”

“Well, actually, that’s a different process altogether…”

He successfully drones on again, and Allura scribbles something in the margins of her notebook and slides it over.

_Please tell me you told Lance_

Keith leans over and writes back.

_I did and I regret that_

She chokes back another laugh, but it dies in her throat when she sees Keith’s obvious scowl.

“What did he do?” she asks in a whisper.

“He laughed and made me take another picture,” Keith says. In a split-second decision, he unlocks his phone and pulls up his stupid Tinder account, where Lance forced him to upload the damn thing.

Allura’s smile softens, and she presses a hand over her chest. “You look sweet, Keith. I fail to see the problem.”

Yeah, well, Keith…has sort of lost the plot on that, too.

“I hate him,” he says instead.

“You don’t hate Lance,” Allura says. “No one really hates Lance. Sure, he can be a bit much when you first meet him, but then he shows a softer side and you realize it’s all his sides that make him who he truly is.”

Keith doesn’t reply to that. He bites his lip and glares at the picture.

“Besides,” she continues. “You look quite happy here. If Lance can make you look that way, I doubt a single inch of you hates him.”

Scratch that, Keith thinks. He hates Allura instead.

 

 

“What’s up? The name’s Preet.”

He’s got a smooth smile, from one quirked corner of his lips to the other. His skin is darker than Lance’s, his hair curlier and eyebrows thicker, but Keith has the distinct impression Lance’s Indian twin is sitting across from him in the booth, lame popped collar and all.

“Keith,” he nods. “This is, uh. A nice place.”

“Yeah, you like it? This is my haunt, man. I practically own this booth,” Preet says, stretching out on his side. Then, he leans forward and winks. “You could own it with me.”

If Keith had a drink already, he’d choke on it.

Preet orders a Blue Hawaii, no need to be light on the blue, and Keith muses at the amount of times over the last month he’s found himself in a bar studying a stranger’s drink choices.

He orders himself a beer, and downs nearly half of it in one go.

If Shiro were here he’d accuse him of alcoholism and urge Keith to go slow. After all, Keith’s not actually used to drinking this much this frequently. Maybe this is part of the ‘living’ Professor Coran talked about. He watches Preet skillfully spin a story about his accounting job and blinks when he realizes he doesn’t…really mind Preet’s voice all that much. It has a familiar lilt to it, something high and musical, but he can’t place exactly where it jogs his memory.

“So, I was working on my spreadsheet, right?” he says, an arm thrown over the back of the bench. “And I was this close to figuring out the equation to organize all one thousand cells into the right categories, when Shelby the secretary runs over, screaming her head off, saying there’s a rat chewing through her poster of John Stamos!”

Keith laughs at the appropriate times, finds himself smiling instead of frowning, and fights off the alarm bells at the back of his mind.

Later, Preet says, “That’s so cool. My sister writes young adult romance, and even though I tell her it’s silly, I secretly admire her for it. I see how much work she puts into her books, and I bet you do the same.”

Which is. Weirdly nice.

He orders a second beer.

And on the second beer, he realizes what’s wrong. It’s nothing he’ll remember in the morning, he’s sure. But much, much later, when Preet points a thumb over his shoulder and asks “Wanna ditch this joint and maybe see a movie?” Keith finds himself staring at his _eyes._ They’re not that nice.

He politely declines, citing a paper due at midnight, and stumbles out the door, into an Uber, and home.

 

 

Lance’s homework is actually finished for once, which is the ultimate testament to how he _hasn’t_ been slacking off lately by going to parties. It kind of sucks when it’s 10 p.m., though, and Keith hasn’t come back yet. These are the two reasons he’s cuddled under a blanket his sister crocheted and about to press play on a movie on his laptop. Some superhero film. He doesn’t really care about it, honestly, but he’d otherwise conk out before he hears—

A knock at the door. He bolts upright, quickly eying Hunk’s closed door to make sure it didn’t disturb him.

The knock comes again, followed by a soft curse. Lance untangles himself from the blanket and laptop and creeps towards the door. One hand gripping the knob, he peers through the keyhole to see…Keith, swaying slightly and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

Lance’s heart catches in his throat. Fuck, every time. He thought this reaction to just seeing Keith’s face would stop after a while. What did he say to Hunk? Three weeks? But, noooo. It’s like every time Keith appears, there’s something else to memorize about the way he chews his lip when he concentrates or the furrow of his eyebrow, and Lance just wants to see it _again._

He still curses himself inwardly every time he thinks about what happened when Keith came home from last week’s date. First offense: Lance chased him around the room like a swooning third grader. Second offense: he kind of flirted a little, although he swears Keith is so oblivious, he didn’t notice. Third offense: he couldn’t help himself. When they’d stilled and Keith’s frown softened at the edges, he let himself smooth out his collar, run a hand over his chest, and tuck a lock of his hair reverently away.

God, his hair is fucking soft, too, which is a crime considering the sheer lack of products Keith leaves in their shared shower. He can’t lie and say he hasn’t been thinking about it since. It’s becoming…a bigger problem, especially since Keith’s standing on the other side of the door, clearly a little out of it, and waiting for Lance to turn the doorknob.

“Am I dealing with drunk or sober Keith?” Lance asks in lieu of a greeting. A secret part of him relishes in the way Keith scowls at the question, and he receives an answer when Keith attempts to stalk past him only to end with a stumble and Keith digging his nails into Lance’s biceps.

“I am fine,” Keith says slowly. “I didn’t drink that much. And I want my laptop.”

“Well, how did it go?” Lance asks, guiding Keith further into the apartment. He props him up on the futon and Keith drapes his legs over the cushions.

“Good,” Keith admits. “He was nice. He told me he admired me for writing. Ordered a Blue Hawaii. I liked his cologne.”

Lance swallows against the stone threatening to rise up his throat. This is good! Keith found someone good! It was about time, after all those terrible dates. He kind of laments the missed opportunity of comforting him, though.

But that doesn’t matter, because Lance’s job is to be a good friend and wingman, and he’ll be damned if he messes that up.

“Uh, your laptop?” he asks.

Keith nods eagerly and makes grabby hands. “Laptop. I think I figured out something about the stupid romance.”

Lance dutifully retrieves Keith’s laptop from his room and sets it in his lap. Immediately, that concentration overtakes his dazed expression. Whereas Lance loses all dexterity when he drinks, Keith types just as quickly as he does sober.

Lance pushes Keith’s legs off the futon and crashes next to him, foregoing the movie on his laptop to watch Keith. Which isn’t creepy. At all.

“What did you figure out?” he asks.

“They need…” Keith trails off, backspacing several times before he moves forward.

“Need?”

“Eyes,” he says.

“Yeah, you’re not making any sense. They need eyes?”

“The princess—no, the blue paladin needs prettier eyes.”

Lance can’t hide his snicker. It’s funny to hear Keith talk about Voltron; mostly because it just makes zero sense to him every time.

“Alright, what color are the blue paladin’s eyes?” he humors.

Keith backspaces again and frowns. “Blue, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Lance parrots. “So, the red paladin has red eyes?”

“Actually, he has…” Keith trails off, then says, “That’s a spoiler for book two. I’m done.”

He snaps the lid shut and pushes it away. Lance catches it before it falls to the floor and sets it on the coffee table.

“You need more Tylenol, man?” he asks.

“No,” Keith scoffs. “And I’m not tired.”

Lance curses his future self—his one-minute-in-the-future self—and offers a corner of the blanket he previously shoved to the floor.

“You wanna watch a movie? It’s a superhero film. Not actually sure which one, but I was just about to start when you came home,” he says.

Keith seems to contemplate, then nods. He shuffles closer, taking the blanket and wrapping it around himself. Like this, they touch shoulder to waist. Lance isn’t sure 100 percent sober Keith would agree to this, but, hey, sober Lance isn’t complaining!

He settles his own laptop on his knees again, angling it so Keith can see. As the opening sequence unfolds on-screen, Keith shuffles once more until he can comfortably rest his chin on Lance’s shoulder, his hair tickling Lance’s jaw. Lance looks to the ceiling for a quick prayer to whatever deity sculpted Shiro’s biceps, then focuses on the movie.

 

 

When Keith comes to class on Monday, Allura eagerly awaits the news of this weekend’s date. Keith says nothing, only takes out his colored pencils and stares blankly at the whiteboard.

“So…?” Allura asks, her eyes twinkling.

“Do you think Lance’s shoulders are bony?” Keith asks.

“What?” She laughs, thin eyebrows knitting in confusion. “Well, yes. He’s a swimmer. But that’s a strange question.”

Keith only shrugs, picks up the blue colored pencil, and starts drawing.

 

. . .

 

The blue paladin is the flirty one. This, Keith knows.

He knows these characters like the back of his hand. He’s done enough writing exercises with Coran to know how they would react in most situations. Coran can only give so many assignments with the prompt “Two of your characters are running away from a zembled Wemblat armed with two flamboolians. How do they react?” to know that the blue paladin would _definitely_ try to distract it with wiggly arms, while the yellow paladin would throw up from the stench of the flamboolians, only to realize a Wemblat of the zembled variety reacts cowardly to light and shoot his canon to scare it off their tail.

Anyway. Keith’s point: he _knows_ his characters, front to back. At least, he thinks he does. And after all this time, he still doesn’t understand why _Coran_ doesn’t understand the romance. He scrolls through his outline notes for what seems like the millionth time, searching for the spot where Coran became disenchanted with the blue paladin and the princess. Was it their first meeting? No, that’s too early. Was it—

The apartment door flings open and bangs against the wall, no doubt deepening the dent Lance already promised he would fix. Keith refrains from rolling his eyes as Lance barges in and throws himself onto the futon.

“Keith!” he gasps, forcing Keith to bring his eyes up from his laptop screen. Lance looks flustered, almost, with windswept hair and flushed cheeks. “Where’s Hunk? Did he tell you?”

“…No?” Keith replies. And, frankly, he doesn’t want to know.

“Well, fuck, Hunk.” Lance _tsks_ and rolls off the couch again. “Guess it’s just you and me, Keithy. We’re going shopping.”

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Keith says. “And I’m writing.”

He watches as Lance rummages around the overflowing kitchenette counter. After a moment, he triumphantly waves a slip of paper.

“Aha! There we are. Now, let’s go.”

“Like I said—”

Lance groans, long and loud, and collapses again next to Keith. Then, he takes the laptop, shuts it gently, and sets it aside.

“Keith,” he says earnestly, fluttering his long dark eyelashes in Keith’s direction. “How many times must I whisk you away from a two-hour writing session when your eye bags look like tote bags?”

“My eye bags aren’t that deep,” Keith mumbles, hands immediately coming to his face as he pouts. As the pads of his fingers test the delicate skin under his eyes, Lance gently tugs at his wrists.

“Don’t you know if you touch your skin, you’ll get acne?” he chastises. Then he leans forward, eyebrows furrowing and thin nose scrunching. “Not that you need the advice. How is your skin so clean up close? I’ve never even seen you touch your face.”

“I use bar soap in the shower.”

Truthfully, most of the time Keith doesn’t even use bar soap, but Lance’s reaction is _so_ worth it. He yells and jerks away, his loose grip falling away from Keith’s wrists as his hands flail. Keith can’t help but smirk and smugly fold his arms over his chest.

“A, I need to show you the beautifying powers of a face mask. B, I’m terrified of you. And C, get up, because we gotta gather the supplies,” Lance says, shuddering dramatically.

Keith rolls his eyes and unfolds himself from his spot.

“I know you probably have enormous plans for this weekend, like partying it up at a frat or scoring a record number of dates, but tonight, you’re here, okay?” Lance says, stuffing the slip of paper he found in the kitchenette into his jeans pocket. “This is a time-honored Trio Tradition, and you’re invited.”

Keith barely has time to hop into his shoes before Lance shoulders his way through the front door again and leaves Keith to helplessly follow.

“And?” he asks, limping a few paces until he stops to dig the heel of his sneakers out of its crease.

“It’s actually nothing really special,” Lance shrugs, a bashful smile on his lips. “But we haven’t had a night in together since before I left for Nebraska. Anyway, we’re just picking up a few snacks and alcohol from the grocery store.”

Keith rolls his eyes. Why he needs to go with Lance, he doesn’t know. Still, he catches up until they walk side-by-side and follows him across campus to a grocery store nearby, the one known for stocking ramen to the ceiling.

Not really knowing what supplies Hunk left for Lance, Keith wanders behind him and pushes the cart, listening absently as Lance babbles.

“We tried to have a Skype Trio Tradition once, but it just wasn’t the same, you know?” he laments, tossing three bags of chips into the cart. Keith nods, remembering the time he accidentally walked in on Hunk muttering witch curses at his laptop screen. Skype, he’d said. That was all the explanation Keith needed at the time.

Of course, he’d heard about Lance in the year he’d lived with Hunk while Lance was up in the corn fields. Hunk liked to talk about him. All the positive things, of course, like the latest swim race of this mysterious Lance or that this Lance Keith doesn’t know also likes smothering his ice cream in fudge sauce.

“It was worse with my family,” Lance continues as he crouches to inspect items on the bottom shelf. “Mama never learned how to use Skype, and I’m not gonna say my siblings are lazy, but they _are_ kind of lazy. Plus, Marco and Veronica have already moved out, so it’s too hard to get them to all call at once.”

Yeah, that’s a problem Keith’s never had.

“Nebraska was okay, but you know how many friends I made there, Keith?”

Lance grabs the front of the cart and swings it into the next aisle.

“A lot?” Keith says with a shrug. “You’re pretty…social. And nice.”

Lance snorts and shakes his head. “Zero. The snow made me grumbly and emo like you.”

He shoves the list towards Keith and hops on the front of a cart like a child.

“Hey, why don’t you invite Tall and Broad?” Lance suggests as he lets Keith push his heavy ass down the aisle.

Ugh. Shiro. Yeah, Keith doesn’t want to think about Shiro right now.

“Maybe,” he shrugs.

“He’s your brother, right?” Lance asks. He hops off the cart and grabs something from a shelf.

Keith shrugs, feigning his usual uncaring expression. He can tell Lance doesn’t believe him, though, when he falls back and walks alongside him.

“I’ve always wondered what it’s like to have one sibling,” he says. “Marco is a lot older so he moved out when I was young, but I still had to fight for the bathroom every morning. Especially since Rachel hogged it all the time.”

“Nah, I still had to do that,” Keith says with a little laugh. “Half the reason I had greasy hair in high school is because I didn’t want to wait for the bathroom in the morning.”

“Don’t tell me you’re hiding extra siblings from me,” Lance gasps. “I thought I only had Shiro to blackmail for baby Keith pictures.”

Keith quirks a grin and shakes his head, unable to help himself. It’s hard to hate Lance when he’s like this, all earnest smiles and grabbing Top Ramen from overflowing shelves. Maybe Allura’s right. After all, they dated. If she doesn’t hate him, well. How could Keith?

“I don’t have any siblings.” The words tumble out of Keith’s mouth before he can bite them back. “Shiro’s my brother because he’s…been there for me. I met him while I was in foster care.”

“Oh, shit,” Lance mumbles. “I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t make a habit of blabbing it to everyone,” Keith says.

Lance doesn’t reply, just nods thoughtfully as he crosses something off Hunk’s list. He directs Keith towards the juice section and slugs the biggest bottle of orange juice out of the bottom of the fridge. Which, like, orange juice?

When Lance sets it on top of the steadily growing pile of junk food, he clears his throat and smiles, just a little. Less about the quirked corners of his lips and more about the light in his eyes, the slight crinkle at the edges that convey all Keith needs to know.

Before he can force himself to look away, Lance leans beside him against the cart handle and says, "Thanks for telling me about that. And…I’m glad you have Shiro.”

“Yeah, uh. Me, too,” Keith mumbles.

“And if you don’t invite him tonight, it’ll be a _total_ loss. I mean, I have to have at least one chance to interrogate him about those high school Naruto photos.”

“Yeah, alright.” Keith rolls his eyes. “I’ll invite him, but he’ll never do it.”

“You underestimate these puppy dog eyes, Keith,” Lance says. He tries them out, pouting his lip and giving Keith the roundest goddamn eyes and saddest furrowed eyebrows he’s ever seen.

Keith shoves the cart away. Lance tumbles with a yelp, and Keith smirks as he saunters away.

 

. . .

 

“Oh, Keith had a whole Naruto phase,” Shiro says. “They showed it on television late at night, and sometimes I would catch him at two a.m. watching reruns.”

“No way!” Lance yells. Oh, man. The puppy dog eyes _always_ work.

“But I’d say that’s one of the least interesting parts of teenage Keith,” Shiro continues, much to Keith’s dismay. He curls up in a beanbag dragged out from Hunk’s room, arms crossed and a grimace on his face. “I mean, there was the time I had to pick him up from school because he brought a Swiss Army Knife and used the scissors for an art project.”

Lance watches as Keith rolls his eyes and burrows deeper into the beanbag. Honestly, Lance would have killed to know teenage Keith. Inviting Shiro was, like, his best decision ever.

“Shiro, I’d just like to say,” Lance says, “that you’re my idol and hero.”

Shiro laughs and claps Lance’s shoulder.

“Wait until you hear the actual achievements of my life,” he says.

Before he can continue, Hunk shuffles out of the kitchenette and delicately sets a tray on the coffee table.

“I tried a new recipe,” he says, pulling off his oven mitts. “But I might have misread the directions, because they look a lot different than the picture.”

Lance plucks what might be an actual glass circle from the tray and inspects it closely. Keith doesn’t reach for one, but Shiro apprehensively picks one. It’s…oddly blue, and when he tests a bite, it tastes like…shit.

“Uh, I love you, buddy,” Lance says with a cringe. “But I think you gotta try these again. They’re alien.”

“They look sort of like something in our lab,” Shiro says, rubbing his chin. “But I’m sure if you read the ingredients again, it would turn out well.”

“Aw, rats,” Hunk sighs. “I was going to take these to Shay.”

Keith wrinkles his nose, taking out his phone to tap something quickly before shoving it back into his pocket. In the background, Hunk mutters about miscalculations.

Look, Lance knows he’s mentioned exactly what Keith is doing more than the average amount here. He can’t help it, okay? It’s like everything he sees runs through a Keith filter. Like, if this were a sci-fi novel and Lance wore a cool funky visor with holograms of stuff you can see, the visor is set to scan for Keith first, and the function to change that is broken.

He doesn’t even really know what it is. But Keith has gone from hating his guts to…it’s hard to tell. Tolerating his guts? And that does something funny to Lance’s guts.

Someone knocking on the door snaps Lance out of his thoughts, and he blinks as he realizes Keith’s staring right back at him. Lance rips his gaze from Keith to Hunk opening the door to Pidge—and Allura.

“Look who I found during the last minute of her shift,” Pidge says with a grin, tugging Allura inside despite her slight hesitance.

“Allura!” Hunk gasps, tugging her into a hug. “And I thought you said you were busy!”

“Yes, well,” she says, her words muffled by Hunk’s shoulder. “Here I am.”

When Hunk lets go, Lance is up and ready to give her a hug, too.

“What’s up, princess?” he greets. She pretends to frown, but lets Lance wrap his arms around her shoulders anyway. She smells like a department store perfume aisle, as always, but it’s comforting in the way that the scent is ingrained in years of Lance’s memory. It might not feel the same as when they were together in high school, but Lance is forever grateful that breaking up never meant missing out on her hugs and affection.

“Now that the gang’s all here, let’s watch a movie!” Hunk announces, rubbing his hands together. “We have a failed batch of cookies, lots of junk food snacks, and a variety of cheap beers of your choice. And by variety, I mean two kinds. And wine coolers.”

Six people probably aren’t meant to watch a movie in their considerably small living room, but it works when Hunk drags out his mattress and replaces the coffee table with it, providing an excellent extra set of cushions for bodies that don’t fit on the futon. Lance, Keith, and Shiro squeeze onto the futon, while Allura, Pidge, and Hunk lounge on the floor.

The movie doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s Trio Tradition night—although the trio might have expanded. That’s a good thing, though! It’s comforting in the best way to look around and see people you know well, and maybe not so well, around you.

The lights dim.

Lance glances sidelong at Keith halfway through, clutching a can of beer to his chest, and he smiles softly to himself. Yeah, Keith’s a good fit for Trio…. Er, Sextet night. No, wait. That doesn’t work either. Lance is gonna workshop this one.

 _Anyway._ Point is. Keith’s a good fit. Boy, is he glad Hunk picked him up like a forlorn lost animal on the side of the road and adopted him into the family.

 

. . .

 

The sound of feet shuffling against the linoleum tile alerts Lance to someone behind him, and he turns around, water bottle in hand, to find Keith leaning against the counter.

“You’re awake, sleepyhead,” Lance says, a smile blooming across his lips at the sight of Keith’s slowly blinking eyes and soft scowl.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles. “I just need water.”

In the background, it sounds like an action scene, characters shouting to each other with words Lance doesn’t care to process. Before Keith can move himself, Lance grabs another water bottle from the fridge and slides it across the counter towards him. He nods a thanks and untwists the cap, gulping down a quarter of the bottle in one go.

Lance leans against the counter next to him, close enough to be aware of the inch of space between their shoulders. Keith’s profile is pretty. The line of his sharp jaw, the furrow of his eyebrow, the way his overgrown hair feathers his cheek.

“Shiro’s asleep,” Keith says, jolting Lance out of his reverie.

“I think everyone is,” Lance says. “That usually happens by the end of the second movie.”

“Why aren’t you?” Keith asks.

“Why do you think I stood up? I’d have conked out otherwise. We’ve done this enough times that I have it down to a science, Keithy. I know the minute when Allura starts snoring.”

Keith shakes his head, the corners of his lips quirking.

“Think of it like team bonding!” Lance continues. “Now we know more about each other. Like Allura’s snoring pattern.”

“When would I ever need to know that?” Keith scoffs.

“Maybe someone poisons her in her sleep and the only way I know is because she’s not snoring. Or…maybe it’s just nice to know weird stuff about your friends.”

Keith gives him a strange look, and Lance is reminded yet again of Hunk’s warning—Keith’s not great at making friends. Oh, fuck. Maybe he’s never done something like this with friends before? A sudden urge to prove to Keith he’s Lance’s friend hits him, and he turns to face Keith and pokes him in the arm.

“You’re not exempt from team bonding,” he says. “For example, I know when you get that look on your face, that look when you’re thinking about writerly stuff.”

“Oh, yeah?” Keith raises an eyebrow. “When?”

“When Hunk brought out those cookies earlier.” Lance gestures to the tray of blue cookies still on the counter. “You have this, like, look for it, when you take out your phone and write it down. You’ve done it before.”

Keith sniffs, takes another sip of water.

“So? What about those cookies?” Lance presses, nudging Keith with his elbow.

“It’s stupid. But one of my characters, he’d bake something like that,” Keith mumbles.

“Oh, yeah? Which space explorer is that?”

Keith roll his eyes, to which Lance only grins wider. That riles him up every single time.

“The yellow paladin. He’d call them…” He ponders it for a second with this cute pout of his lips. “Scaltron? Scaltrite? Whatever.”

“That yellow paladin,” Lance tuts. “So, what about your other paladins? Did they fall in love yet?”

At that, Keith grimaces and drops his head forward, obscuring his face. Lance’s fingers itch to tuck it away again, but he keeps it at his side.

“No,” he huffs. “All I’ve learned is that dates are awful, and love is unattainable.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Lance sets his beer down and stands up straight. “Where’d you get that from? Am I really that bad at this?”

Keith doesn’t reply, just takes another sip of water and looks up at Lance through his eyelashes. God, he’s shy about this, isn’t he? Shy is a cute look on Keith.

“Not every date is shit, Keith,” Lance says. “You’re just having a bad streak.”

Keith frowns and his shoulders slump. “What if it’s me?”

Lance can’t help his surprised aborted laugh, and he shakes his head vigorously.

“Keith, Keith, Keith. Your personality is a piece of work, but if they don’t like you, that’s their fault.” Keith rolls his eyes, but Lance is suddenly struck by the need to make Keith understand this. He puts a hand on either shoulder and forces him to look into his eyes. “Hey, man. It’s not you. Well, you can be pretty thorny—”

“Lance,” Keith warns.

“—but you’re, you know. When someone gets to know you, you’re amazing. Stubborn, but strong. Creative, but really straightforward at the same time. Gee, I mean, there’s a reason Hunk likes you so much. And me…and Pidge.”

Lance can tell his cheeks are a little flustered, but he can’t just _let_ Keith wallow in that thought. He ducks down and schools his expression into something as earnest as possible. Keith searches his eyes, trying to find something that’ll betray him, but it won’t happen.

“…Thanks,” Keith mumbles. “I just…how can you still tolerate me after I’ve told you I hate you a million times?”

“Easy, Mullet. I never believed you. Plus, I can’t exactly ignore you when we’re roommates.”

This is where, belatedly, Lance realizes where his hands are. He jerks them back to his side, away from Keith, and leans back on the counter as casually as possible. Keith averts his eyes and Lance takes a long sip of beer in an effort to blame his blush on alcohol instead.

“Anyway,” he coughs. “If it’s not you, it’s me. I’m supposed to be teaching you, and you’re not passing my class!”

“Please don’t refer to it as a class,” Keith scoffs.

“Welcome back, pupil Keith, to Master Lancey Lance’s flirting dojo,” Lance says, dropping his voice an octave and gesturing with a flourish. “What seems to be the problem? Poor delivery? Bad pick-up lines? Master Lance can show you the correct methods.”

“Jesus Christ, Lance.” But the corners of his mouth quirk, and when he shakes his head it’s with a breathless laugh. Lance grins brightly and calls it a success.

“Show me your progress, pupil Keith. Maybe we can work it out that way.”

Lance directs Keith’s shoulders until he’s facing Lance. Keith remains tight-lipped, though.

“Okay. Let me set the scene, then you hit me with all you got.” Lance turns around and clears his throat. Then, he whips around and leans heavily against the counter with his sultriest smile. “Well, hello. You’re sitting at this bar all alone, and I so happen to be alone, too. Would you let me buy you a drink?”

For a moment, Keith freezes, wide eyes trained on Lance’s. Lance barely abstains from swallowing thickly and gestures for Keith to continue.

And then. Keith glances awkwardly towards the sleeping children on the couch and mimics Lance’s counter lean.

He smirks. The differences are minute, but Lance doesn’t flirt like that. Like it’s almost dangerous.

It glints in his eyes when he says, “Only if you can afford the most expensive drink on the menu, Lance.”

Lance’s jaw drops, and he closes it just as quickly.

This…might have been a bad idea.

Evidently, he hesitates just a nanosecond too long, because Keith’s insanely attractive smirk falters and he straightens, bangs falling over his eyes.

“No! No, that was, uh. That was good,” Lance stutters. “You were open. Eye contact. Said, um, my name. Negative points if the guy is broke, but, you know. B minus.”

Keith’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, then sink into that same expression. Jesus fuck.

“It’s kind of fun,” he says, voice dropping into an even softer whisper. “But that’s harder to do with someone I don’t know.”

“Well, then,” Lance gulps. Keith bites his lip as he slips into his thoughts, and Lance can’t help but trail the movement. They’re chapped, but full, and—

It tugs at him. It clamors in his head and climbs up his throat. This want, a sudden want to kiss Keith.

He tears away his gaze just as quickly, averting it the gross linoleum counter. He tamps down on that want and reminds himself Keith specifically doesn’t like him. Lance is helping him fall in love with someone else.

“Well, then?” Keith prompts.

“I’ll just have to teach you better,” Lance says. And immediately regrets.

Keith scrunches his nose, this cute, distasteful expression. It sends daggers into Lance’s heart.

Because Lance is well-versed in love. Because he’s Master Lancey Lance, an expert. He understands that this is the exact moment where ‘not a big problem’ became ‘an enormous, supernova-sized problem.’ He has a crush on Keith, and now it’s beyond the cute people he spots at frat parties. No, this has only happened once before. And that was Allura.

Before his thoughts spiral any farther, Hunk blissfully decides to blunder into the kitchen. Keith looks away and rolls his eyes when Hunk claps him on the shoulder and asks him something. But it sounds underwater, or like _Lance_ is thrashing underwater and Keith and Hunk are floating peacefully on the waves.

Oh, god. Hunk is going to kill him. He has a big, fat, stupid problem of a crush on Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments!


	3. Form Arms and Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allura rolls her eyes, which must be something Keith taught her, but he barely notices over the churn of his stomach as he watches Lance’s arm on her shoulder. What he can’t for the life of him figure out is why.
> 
> Whatever. He ignores it. The host of the laser tag tournament begins speaking about proper gear use and the rules of the arena, and he tunes into that instead. 
> 
> This feeling. This weird, stupid feeling that keeps cropping up whenever something a little off center happens with Lance. He’s starting to hate it, because it always leaves him feeling off kilter like this. And Keith is never off kilter.
> 
> He resolves to leave it behind in this arena. Maybe if he beats the shit out of Lance’s ass in laser tag, it’ll go away. Yeah, that’s his game plan. Defeat Lance, and the ugly feelings will go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lovely small 19k. I hope you're enjoying it so far!

Incessant tapping.

A pause.

More tapping, the almost soothing familiar clacks of a keyboard.

Another pause.

And the repetitive sound of the backspace button.

Keith has…a problem. He’s not exactly sure what that problem really is, or how to define it. But ever since Lance’s dubbed ‘Trio Night,’ it’s a constant thought scratching anxiously at the back of his brain. He doesn’t know when it started. But Lance had taken Keith by the shoulders, forced him to look directly in his eyes, and insulted him. But after _that,_ he’d…you know. Said nice things. And that anxious feeling wiggled its way into the back of his brain and hasn’t left since.

He returns to typing. If he types, he can’t think about it. If he writes, then he doesn’t have to think about how he never noticed how _blue_ Lance’s eyes are.

Keith doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all. So he continues to write, because it might be enough to distract him.

Except someone slams a door halfway down the hallway, and that definitely distracts Keith. He glances up from his laptop as a student whisks past, clutching their laptop to their chest with an expression of exasperation. His eyes shift their gaze to the door they exited. Coran’s office. Which means Keith’s appointment is next.

With a deep sigh of resignation, he shuts his laptop and slips it into his bag, hiking it onto his shoulder. With a glance to his watch, he realizes that, for a man that’s as much of a stickler for time as Coran is, it’s time for him to enter the layer.

He knocks on the door, and a yelled, “Come in, my dear boy!” echoes from inside. So Keith bites the bullet and swings the door open fully.

It’s the same office as always. Coran’s high back chair turned for an ominous effect, his enormous wooden desk, and the pitiful folding chair on the other side.

Coran spins the chair around, already twirling his mustache as he watches Keith take his place on the chair on the other side of the desk. Really, Keith has no idea why this office has none of the university-issued chairs, but he’s learned not to question Coran. Coran is his own brand of eccentricity.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he says, abandoning his mustache to steeple his hands on the desk.

“I made an appointment,” Keith replies awkwardly.

“No, I mean to say that I’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival. My mind’s been in suspense! What’s become of the Voltron paladins since I last met them?”

Keith finally cracks a smile, which must have been Coran’s intention. He rummages through his desk and places a manila folder before him. When he opens it, Keith recognizes it as his professor’s notes on his manuscript.

“So, Keith,” Coran says. “What have you done since our last one-on-one meeting at the beginning of the semester?”

“Uh—”

“I haven’t forgotten the _special_ homework I gave you but tell me about your novel first. Opposable thumbs?” Coran waggles his eyebrows excitedly.

“General editing. And, ah, no opposable thumbs.”

Coran deflates.

“I looked over the battle scenes, and I figured Voltron didn’t need them? All the robot does with them is crush stuff.”

“Like any good battle robot,” Coran says. “I might have to accept that, but I want you to think about it a little harder. Voltron might be a science fiction robot, but it and the Castleship must still be functional.”

Keith fends off a roll of his eyes and nods. He knows what Coran will ask next. Has he—

“Have you considered your _special_ homework?”

“You don’t need to say it like that.”

“Oh, but it’s so exciting! Well? Any steps closer to falling in love?”

If there was any a moment where Keith would cringe into eternity, it’s this one. He forces himself to sit up in a confident posture of which Shiro would be proud and tells Coran about what’s happened so far.

His roommate offering to be his wingman. Attempting to teach him how to flirt (though he regrets saying that out loud). The stupid dating app. The even stupider dates. Nothing’s come of it so far, but he…hasn’t completely written it off as a lost cause.

“Lance has taken me to parties, given me tips, and he’s annoying and persistent, but I’ve actually, ah, learned a little,” Keith says, sinking back into the seat. It’s downright painful to say out loud, but Coran leans forward with enthusiasm. “I still don’t really know what any of this has to do with my story—”

“You’re getting there! It’s the journey, Keith, just like the journey of your paladins. Say, when the orange paladin rides the purple lion into battle, all their training in the invisible corn maze becomes crystal clear. You’re saying this Lance character is helping you out? And you’ve become closer friends?”

Keith shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unsure what answer Coran is looking for. “Yeah?”

“Then it’ll come into focus soon, my boy. In the meantime, remain fierce and ready for battle like your orange paladin.”

“There’s no—”

“Good day, now!”

…Orange paladin.

Coran spins the chair around, and Keith rolls his eyes. He never knows exactly what to do with Coran’s cryptic advice. He gathers his bag and slams the door shut behind him, just to scare the next appointment a healthy amount.

 

. . .

 

“I have something to confess to you,” Allura says.

“You still love me and regret ever breaking up with me?”

“Ha! No. Best decision I ever made.”

“You wound me, ‘Lura. Now ‘fess up. I’m walking to class so make it snappy.”

“Alright. I’m not sure if Keith’s told you this yet, but we share a class. In fact, we sit right next to each other in Geology 101.”

Lance skids a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. He takes his phone away from his ear, stares at it, then brings it up again and says, “Are you fucking shitting me, Allura?”

“No, I am not ‘fucking shitting you’, Lance,” she mocks. “We share a class, and I’d say we’re friends, actually. I like your Keith, even if his notes are atrocious.”

“My—he never told me this! I can’t believe my ex-girlfriend and my roommate share a class. Holy shit.”

Someone shoots him a dirty look for taking up the middle of the sidewalk, so he steps aside and tries not to look as flabbergasted as he feels.

“I have a question,” she continues, ignoring his expletives.

“Wait, what do you guys talk about? Does he talk about me?”

“That’s strictly confidential. Anything we say about you in that classroom does not leave. Anyway—”

“Aw, ‘Lura, that’s not fair!”

“ _Anyway._ I’ve come to know Keith over the last month or so, and now I’m curious. You’ve only talked about him as a roommate and friend, but I know you, and I know you have a type. And _then_ , I was invited to a Trio Night, and I happened to wake up again in the middle of the second movie…”

“No, nope. I’m gonna be late for class, can’t talk right now.”

“How could I not see the correlation, Lance? We’re both stubborn, we’re both smart. He has nice, long hair, as do I.”

“It’s a mullet,” Lance argues.

“And there you go, deflecting. Tell me, do you have a crush on Keith?”

“You’re so cruel for a princess. Yes, okay? Yes, I like—him.”

He redirects his sentence when more students walk past him, lest they, too, in some way know Keith. Because that’s his type of luck right now.

“That’s adorable!” she gushes. “I knew it! I absolutely knew it. Lance, you have my blessing.”

“Allura, you’re missing the part where he doesn’t like me back and never will, plus the fact that I’m his wingman, _plus_ plus the fact that this crush will blow over like they usually do, _plus plus plus_ the fact that Hunk told me to back off—”

“Hunk told you to what?”

“He’s very protective of Keith, and I’m not stepping on that. Long story short: it’s not going to happen. Sorry, Allura.”

There’s a pause, then a huff of breath, and Lance cringes inwardly.

“Lance. You have bared your soul to me at three a.m. on top of a parking garage. I have seen you throw up on the side of the road and cry about losing your fake ID. I also saw you open your acceptance letter and listened to you complain about corn and snow. And out of all of that—that is by far one of the _stupidest_ things you’ve ever said.”

Lance winces at Allura’s rising volume, ducking farther away from the path and plugging his other ear.

“Which part?” he asks meekly.

“Figure it out on your own. And thank you for confirming my theory that Keith is your type, as well as the theory that you have surgically placed your head into your ass. Goodbye, Lance.”

“Allura, wait—”

And the line clicks dead.

Lance might just hit his head on the nearest water-sucking palm tree until he passes the fuck out. Instead, he glances quickly around, curses under his breath, and hastily makes his way to class.

 

. . .

 

Whichever one of Keith’s birth parents decided to leave him in the scorching Arizona desert deserves him an explanation, because standing on the side of a mountain, even as the excruciating summer is a little past the point of winding down, must be some form of punishment.

Keith scuffs the sole of his red-black-and-white leather boots against the dusty sand and frowns. He doesn’t own hiking boots, nor any hiking gear of any kind. He likes the outdoors fine. Hell, he inherited this shack out in the desert, south nearer to Tucson, but he doesn’t visit it to be reminded of the great Arizona outdoors.

“Stop dragging your feet and hurry up,” Allura chastises, turning around from where she’s a few paces ahead. The rest of their geology lecture file down the path around them, each in a unique assembly of a scramble to find something resembling exercise clothes and an “I thought this would be an easy general credit class” expression.

Yeah, apparently not. Apparently, the professor decided to drive them all out to fucking Apache Junction and the Superstition Mountains for a general credit class.

It’s crystal clear to Keith why Lance dated Allura, though. She looks as effortless as always, her hair naturally perfectly curly, with slimming tights, a crop top, and sneakers that are still miraculously white. She looks like a princess. Like she could helm the Altean Castle of Lions in _Voltron._

Keith rolls his eyes and hurries a little. Ahead of them, the instructor drones on about the history of the mountain they’re climbing, gesturing vaguely to its shapes and pointing out the various rock types embedded in its surface.

“Then the magma chamber solidified, which is main shape we see today…” he says, right before Keith tunes him out again.

“You’re incredibly distracted today,” Allura hums, stepping carefully around a rock fallen into the middle of the path.

“Sorry,” Keith says.

“Do you mind telling me about what?”

Yes. Yes, he does. Because it definitely has something to do with the half an hour Keith spent scrolling through Lance’s Instagram last night, staring at photo after photo of Lance-and-Allura (not Lance and Allura) with that incredibly foreign, tight feeling in his chest.

“Nothing,” he says instead. “School.”

“Mm, I don’t think so.” She hops on top of a boulder and faces him with her hands on her hips, a sly smile on her lips. “How is your falling in love mission going so far? Found anyone yet?”

“Nope,” he says as he climbs up with her. He looks forward at the end of the path, a cove of rock spears at the base of the rest of the towering mountain. When he glances at her, there’s a sparkle in her eye. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Just school.”

He rolls his eyes again.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.” She elbows him before continuing along the path, leaving Keith to follow again. The professor still talks on ahead of them, but Allura leans in close. “Lance tells me your dates aren’t going well.”

“Does Lance tell you everything?” Keith asks, jerking away.

“Well, most things. Sometimes I have to rip the information from him instead. If you ever want him to tell you anything, an Indian burn or a well-placed threat is the way to go,” she says, her voice as airy as always. “So?”

“I’m gonna keep that in mind. But, yeah. There’s only so many Tinder dates you can go on before you realize dating apps are completely useless and a fraud.”

Allura laughs. They pause on the path, and she takes a swig of her pink water bottle. “Is there anything you did like about them? Bad experiences can lead you to discover what it is you miss about good ones.”

“I guess…if they’re not assholes.”

“A tough order,” she nods sagely. “What about specifically?”

“I don’t know,” Keith says in exasperation. “If they cared even an ounce more than I did?”

“Which was not at all.”

“Hey, I’m only here because I need to keep my grade. This is purely science. Understand romance and get out.”

She sighs deeply, tucking an escaped silvery curl back into the massive bun piled on top of her head. When Keith looks up again, he realizes that the class has reached the end of the path. Students exhausted from the hike spread out on various red boulders, fanning themselves and inhaling water. Allura merely leans her weight on one foot and levels Keith with a look he can’t decipher.

“Why don’t you let me try?” she asks. Keith looks at her blankly. “Hunk and I have been talking, and, well, maybe you need more minds to help you on this quest. In fact, we have a mutual friend that would be a _wonderful_ date.”

Keith eyes her suspiciously. He’s not sure he trusts her completely. If Lance dated her, and these are the types of dates Lance gets him, who’s to say Allura’s date will be any different?

“Oh, please, Keith?” she says, going so far as to put her water bottle down so she can clasp her hands together in a plea. “You’ll let us set this one date up for you?”

“Fine,” Keith huffs.

“Take out the packets I gave you at the head of the trail,” the professor drawls. At once, tens of students rustle in their backpacks, and Keith and Allura follow suit.

“What’s his name?”

“Well, that takes the fun out of it,” Allura says. “We’ll set it up. Don’t you worry, Keith.”

Keith grimaces and flips to the first page in the packet.

 

. . .

 

“Knock, knock,” a voice says through the crack of Keith’s door.

Keith rolls his eyes, throwing the fifth shirt he’s pulled out of his closet onto his unkempt bed.

“You know, it’s not knocking when you’re not actually knocking, Shiro,” he says as the door widens to reveal his older brother.

“It’s just the common courtesy of announcing my presence. There were one too many times--”

“Okay! I get it! Say all the knocks you want!”

Shiro chuckles and leans against the door frame, surveying the mess of Keith’s room still shrouded in half-darkness. He flicks on the light switch as he sets a plastic bag down on the floor, and Keith crosses his arms.

“Why does Lance still insist on calling me Tall and Broad?” Shiro asks.

“Because he thinks he’s hilarious. Ignore him,” Keith says. “Where is he, anyway?”

“He was just running out the door, actually. What are you doing here?”

Keith scrubs his hands down his face, then gestures blithely to the pile of clothes.

“Allura and Hunk set me up on a blind date,” he grumbles. “But since I have no idea who the guy is, I don’t know what the fuck to wear.”

Shiro kicks off the door frame and inspects the pile, then the room’s small closet. Keith doesn’t own a lot of clothes, never has. When you’re a foster kid, you carry everything in a large trash bag. And he never really got comfortable in Shiro’s, and later Shiro and Adam’s, home.

“What about a plain black shirt? That always looks good,” he offers, taking a hanger out of the closet to reveal Keith’s least stained and wrinkled black shirt.

Keith breathes out through his nose and shrugs. It’s whatever, he guesses, and he rips off his own (stained, wrinkly) shirt to put that on.

“And those pants don’t work,” Shiro continues.

“What? Why? I like these pants.”

“Yeah, I can tell. They’re too worn in. Here.” Shiro pulls a pair of light wash jeans and tosses them over. “Wear those.”

Keith tugs on Shiro’s pants choice, a stark change to his usual black skinnies or sweatpants.

“You’re never going to woo anyone if you don’t comb your hair.”

“Ugh, come on, Shiro. I look fine,” Keith protests, but Shiro takes him by the shoulder and steers him out of his room into the apartment bathroom.

In front of the mirror, Keith has to admit it’s not his best look. Shiro spies Lance’s hair products lined up on the counter, and he picks one out seemingly at random.

He scoops out a nickel-sized dollop of white cream, rubs it between his palms, and proceeds to smear it around Keith’s hair. Keith wrinkles his nose as his head jerks this way and that with Shiro’s administrations.

“Stay still,” Shiro chastises.

“I’m not going to prom! It’s just one date!”

Shiro laughs and starts combing his fingers more gently, rearranging pieces here and there, until he turns Keith back to the mirror and studies it in the reflection.

“Better,” he says with a decisive nod.

“It looks the same.”

Instead of replying straightforward, Shiro says, “Do you remember when Adam and I first started dating?”

Keith scrunches his nose, parsing through his memories for…somewhere in high school, where he was almost too busy imploding with his own problems to notice Shiro and Adam.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“Do you remember one of my first dates with him? He wanted to take me out to a nice dinner. It was at that fondue restaurant. And you sat on my bed while I went through every item in my closet trying to find something suitable to impress him.”

“I thought it was stupid.” Keith quirks a smile.

“And it kind of was. But it’s also nice, putting that sort of effort into a relationship. I already knew I would love Adam for the rest of my life. So, I wanted to look good for him. And I think, on some level, that one night paid off.”

“’Cause you fucked afterward?”

“Keith!” Shiro smacks him upside the head as he cackles. “That’s not the point!”

“I mean—”

Shiro levels him with a glare, and Keith cuts his own sentence off.

“The _point_ ,” Shiro says sharply, “is that, sometimes, you prepare for major events in your life. Your appearance is part of that.”

“I hardly think that applies,” Keith frowns as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. “It’s a blind date. I don’t think I’m gonna meet the love of my life at laser tag.”

“Well, keep an open mind.” Shiro rearranges one more strand of hair behind Keith’s ear, and it hits him. Blindsides him.

In a couple months, Shiro won’t be here for that anymore. Neither will Adam. No one’s gonna look at all the clothes on his bed and pick out better ones.

“Hey, Shiro?” he says suddenly, urgently. Shiro meets his gaze in the reflection. “Thanks.”

His brother smiles softly and pats his shoulder. “Don’t thank me just yet. I have one more thing for you.”

He leaves the bathroom and returns with the plastic bag, handing it to Keith to unwrap. Keith pulls out the contents and unfurls it. A leather jacket, supple and studded with metal buttons.

“A gift from Adam and me. Your cropped red one is getting a little old. And we, uh, thought this one looks a little more grown up.”

“It’s nice,” Keith says, holding it up. Almost too nice. “How much does it cost?”

Shiro holds up his hand, which tells Keith all he needs to know.

“Shiro—”

“Just accept it, Keith. Adam would come at you with a butcher knife if you didn’t.”

Keith scowls, but he slips it over his arms just the same and looks in the mirror one last time. It’s not just nice. It makes him look…attractive, almost? Which is not a word Keith usually for himself.

“See? Look at you. All ready for your blind date,” Shiro says with a grin.

“Thank you,” Keith says, admiring the little silver details on the cuffs. He looks away from the mirror to Shiro’s face, expression soft. “For everything.”

“Of course, Keith. Now...” He pushes Keith out of the bathroom, and Keith collects his wallet and phone. “Got everything?”

“Yep.”

“Alright. Go. Be great.”

Keith pauses at the door, Shiro’s words processing in his head. Go…be great...

“Yeah. That sounds good,” he says, slipping his phone out of his pocket.

“Really?” Shiro’s face brightens. “You’re really going to take that advice? Because I thought it sounded cool in my head, but I didn’t think it would have the same impact—"

“Nah,” Keith interrupts, tapping furiously in his notes app. “That just sounds exactly like something one of my characters would say. Thanks, Shiro. Bye! Enjoy Hunk’s leftovers!”

And Keith shuts the door.

 

. . .

 

Allura promised he would be here by now. Keith grits his teeth against the mild cold and wraps his arms tighter around himself, surveying the street outside the laser tag place. She said he would be here, and Keith would recognize him by how the guy will probably look around helplessly for whoever is supposed to be his blind date, too.

He checks his phone again, seeing Allura’s last message taunt him on the screen.

From Allura. _Like I said, don’t worry yourself! He’ll be there._

Well. He isn’t.

He’ll give it five more minutes. Five more minutes, and then he’s throwing the two laser tag tickets in his hand in the gutter and walking home. Lance won’t even be there this time, though, because he said he had something else to do and then didn’t explain it at all. Stupid. All of this is stupid. Keith’s getting stood up on a blind date that Shiro let him believe might go well—

Oh. Who’s that? A familiar brown head of hair bobs down the street, until it comes closer and Keith can make out the lithe figure and deep skin of none other than…Lance, looking a little helpless.

Lance seems to notice him a few seconds later, because his eyes land on his and Keith’s heart starts beating way faster than strictly necessary.

“Hey, Keith!” he calls, a bright grin immediately settling over his face like it belongs there.

An instant want—no, need—to hightail it the fuck out of there grips Keith, but instead he forces himself to smile back and lower his crossed arms.

“I—wow, you’re dressed up today,” Lance greets when he comes to stand only a foot or so away, his eyes not-so-subtly trailing up Keith’s body. Keith shifts uncomfortably and turns away, a sharp contrast to Lance’s jutted hip and relaxed posture. “Is that—I mean, I haven’t seen that, uh, leather jacket before.”

“Shiro gave it to me,” Keith says.

“It’s hot.”

“What?” Keith whips around and stares at Lance’s weirdly flushed face.

“I said it’s not the jacket you had before! A nice upgrade! You know, to look ruggedly handsome on…dates. Did you do something to your hair?”

Keith touches it self-consciously. “Is it weird?”

“No! I like it. It’s, um. Different.” Lance rocks back on his heels for a second before asking, “What are you doing here? I thought you said Allura set you up on a blind date?”

“She did. I am,” Keith says. “I’m waiting for him, but I think I got stood up.”

Lance’s eyes widen, then narrow. “Funny…Hunk also set me up on a...”

“On a what?”

And his eyes go wide again, an almost imperceptible flash of panic crossing over them before he returns to his relaxed posture.

“Oh, nothing! It’s nothing. It’s cool to see you here, too…though. So, they’re really, ah, a no show?”

 “Yeah,” Keith pouts, crossing his arms again. “Ugh, and I already have the tickets and everything.”

Keith holds out his palm to show the two tickets, and Lance nods.

“Hey,” Keith says suddenly. “If my stupid blind date is a no show, and your thing is apparently ‘nothing,’ do you wanna do laser tag instead?”

“Oh, no, that’s your thing.”

“It’s either that or I go home, Lance. Are you backing down from laser tag?”

“N-no,” Lance stutters. He eyes the tickets, then back at Keith’s face. “I don’t know if we should—”

“Scared?” Keith can’t help it. It’s beyond fun goading Lance into stupid stuff like this. Besides, this sounds a lot more fun than someone he doesn’t know.

And it works. Lance sniffs and frowns, snatching a ticket from Keith’s open palm. Keith grins and turns into the arena, leaving Lance to follow.

Already, the lobby is slightly smoky and lined with pulsing neon lights, the low thrum of electro music enhancing the overall doomsday rave aesthetic. Keith and Lance slap their tickets on the counter and get ushered into another room with the other participants, outfitted with target vests and a gun each.

“You’re underestimating me, Kogane,” Lance says, holding up his gun to Keith’s face. “I’m the best shot on campus.”

“Yeah, right. Best shot at losing.”

“More like best shot at beating your ass,” he fires right back, just as the door opens and two more participants are herded inside.

Keith and Lance both look over to find a silvery-haired girl and a boy with a headband being fitted with vests and guns.

Lance gasps, shaking Keith’s forearm to get him to look, even though he already very much is. The touch stings, much to Keith’s alarm. He brushes that thought aside.

“Hunk! Allura! Over here!” Lance drags Keith behind him in his quest to reach their friends. “What a darn coincidence that you two are at this exact laser tag arena.”

“Oh, well, we do enjoy a bit of laser tag,” Allura says, looking a little sheepish.

“Yeah! It’s…fun.” Hunk cringes.

“You hate laser tag,” Lance accuses.

“Lance, it’s okay,” Keith says, holding up his hand. “They probably just wanted to spy on me and that blind date Allura set me up with.”

At that, Allura visibly brightens and smiles smugly.

“Who stood me up, by the way,” Keith continues. “I appreciate the effort, but he never showed up.”

“Wait,” Allura starts, but Lance interrupts with, “Wow, that sucks! But Keith happened to have an extra ticket, and I had _nothing_ to do, so now we’re here.”

Allura’s jaw drops, and she and Lance share about five seconds of a secret expression battle Keith is not privy to understand. Not least because they were together for over three years, and Keith…

He stops that bitter train of thought and shoves it off the tracks.

“But—”

“Nothing, Allura!”

“…Right,” Allura says slowly. “That’s exactly it. Sorry, Keith. I was really looking forward to spying on your blind date…But I’ll have to talk to him about evidently not. Showing. Up.”

“Why are you talking like that?” Keith asks.

Hunk steps forward, throwing an arm around Keith’s shoulder and pulling him close.

“Keith, I don’t tell you enough that I love you,” he says.

“Thanks?”

For a hell of an awkward moment, no one says anything at all. And for once in his goddamn life, Keith takes it upon himself to break it up.

“Hey, since we’re all here,” he pipes up, voice barely cracking in the process (a clear success), “you wanna play in teams?”

“Teams! I like teams. I call Lance,” Hunk says.

“Ah, no you don’t.” Lance throws his own arm around Allura’s shoulder. “Allura and Lance against Hunk and Keith. The ultimate showdown.”

Allura rolls her eyes, which must be something Keith taught her, but he barely notices over the churn of his stomach as he watches Lance’s arm on her shoulder. What he can’t for the _life_ of him figure out is why.

Whatever. He ignores it. The host of the laser tag tournament begins speaking about proper gear use and the rules of the arena, and he tunes into that instead.

This feeling. This weird, stupid feeling that keeps cropping up whenever something a little off center happens with Lance. He’s starting to hate it, because it always leaves him feeling off kilter like this. And Keith is never off kilter.

He resolves to leave it behind in this arena. Maybe if he beats the shit out of Lance’s ass in laser tag, it’ll go away. Yeah, that’s his game plan. Defeat Lance, and the ugly feelings will go away.

 

. . .

 

“Ready. Set. Go!”

Allura raises her blaster but doesn’t manage to shoot before Lance yanks her behind a barrier.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he hisses, voice more frantic than he wants to reveal about his current state of inner panic.

“I’ve done absolutely nothing. What did you think?” she whispers back. “Look out!”

Lance whips around to find Keith careening around the barrier, holding up his blaster and aiming directly at Lance’s chest.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” In the split second, he fires at Keith and ducks, bringing Allura to the ground with him. He hears Keith curse behind him as they retreat from the barrier and weave through the course. The dark neons and blasting electronic music guide them up a flight of stairs and behind another wall, where Allura crosses her arms.

“Why are you running away?”

“I’m interrogating you,” Lance says, peeking from behind the wall to see if the other two have caught up yet. “And I don’t believe the ignorance act, princess.”

“Well, whatever do you mean?” she asks airily, inspecting her gun like she inspects her nails.

Lance turns to her and levels her with his hardest glare. She stares back, unflinching.

“You tried to set me up on a blind date with Keith,” he accuses.

 

 

“Where the fuck did they go?” Keith keeps his blaster steady, prowling the edge of the arena and looking for any flash of white hair or cocky laughter.

Hunk glances behind him warily, clutching his blaster to his chest.

“Look, man, I don’t know. But I lied. I hate laser tag.”

Another competitor jumps out from behind a glowing wall, and Hunk yelps and aims his blaster randomly. The competitor hits him and whoops before they disappear.

“Aww,” Hunk says forlornly, staring at his chest.

“Come on, big guy. Pay attention,” Keith says. “There they are.”

“I am paying attention. Attention to my queasy stomach.”

Keith rolls his eyes and takes the first step up a set of stairs. Lance and Allura really aren’t as stealthy as they thought. He can’t make out words, but he can hear their muffled whispering, and Lance’s shoulder appears around the wall they hid behind.

He creeps closer. He can hit Lance with an ambush. Pummel him with shots, and Lance is effectively out of the game. Then Keith can go back to how he felt before, with Lance as a begrudgingly good friend.

And then the whispering stops, and Lance rolls out from behind the wall, aiming directly at Keith.

“Retreat, retreat!” Hunk shrieks, stumbling away.

Lance cocks a grin as the sensors on Keith’s vest buzz. Another hit.

 

 

“Told you I’m the best shot on campus!” Lance yells over the din of the music, and he revels in the way Keith flips him off and hightails it after Hunk. He scrambles up to follow them, Allura at his heel and alert.

“I just can’t believe you didn’t jump at the chance for a date with Keith,” Allura says, firing a shot at a stranger sneaking up behind them.

“I tell you once I like him and you set up a whole blind date,” Lance mutters. “Even planning to spy on us like we couldn’t see you. In fact, I don’t even _know_ how you got Hunk to set me up. He never does that. Why would he agree to do that?”

“Contrary to your belief, Lance, he knows when you’re serious. You’ve been best friends practically since diapers. Of course he trusts you.”

Lance stops in his tracks to face her.

“You mean he doesn’t—”

And a sensor on his chest vibrates. He whips around to find Keith and Hunk on a structure above them, Keith smirking.

 

 

Point for Keith, but Lance begins shooting at him without a second delay.

“Go, go!” Keith orders Hunk, and the two of them sprint away. He pushes Hunk across a small bridge.

“You know, I’d love a different gun,” Hunk pants. “Something with a wider blast radius. Bigger chances to hit targets and lesser chances of being hit. Like a bazooka.”

Keith glances around, but their two opponents disappeared.

“Where the hell did they go this time?”

 

“You can’t meddle in this, Allura,” Lance says, pulling her behind yet another wall, opposite the way Keith and Hunk went.

“You’re terrible at strategy,” Allura complains, yanking her wrist out of his grip. “We’re supposed to go _after_ them, not run away from them.”

“Keith is different. He’d freak out! I can’t just be like, ‘Gee, guess I’m your date. Wanna ditch laser tag and make out in the back of a movie theatre?’”

Allura raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you want to do?”

“Not the point!” He jabs the barrel of his gun at her. “I’m his _wingman_ , Allura. Wingmen don’t date their…their wings! And especially not Keith!”

She sighs dramatically before ducking out from behind the wall, leaving Lance to keep up.

“This is more difficult than I thought it would—hey!” The sensor on her back vibrates, and she whirls around to the metaphorical smoking tip of Lance’s gun.  “What was that for?”

“Setting me up on a blind date with Keith,” Lance retorts. He shoots again. “And that’s for expecting me to go along with it.”

She whacks his blaster out of the way with her own and shoots him in the chest.

“Well, that’s for being a colossal idiot,” she huffs.

Lance gasps and shoots her a third time. “That’s for being you!”

“Oh, gee, that really hurts, Lance,” she says sarcastically. “You’re never going to win against Keith if we just keep shooting each other.”

Lance curses himself and marches in the opposite direction, on the lookout for the enemies.

 

 

Keith has the shot. He creeps along behind a low wall, the tip of his gun level with the top, aimed directly at Lance’s back. They’re arguing—about what, he doesn’t know, but he snorts when Lance shoots her with his blaster. No wonder they broke up.

He tightens his finger around the trigger, but Lance chooses that moment to turn around in his direction. Keith fires at him, but he misses completely in his panic—but not enough for Lance to miss his presence.

“Keith!” he shouts.

Keith darts away. He lost Hunk a couple minutes back under a ramp a few yards away, so it’s just him weaving through obstacles as the sounds of Lance’s blaster trail him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He makes a hard left only to find himself backed into a corner, no other direction to go. His heart pounds as he turns around, blaster raised, and finds Lance slowly advancing with his finger already on the trigger.

“No running away now,” he says as Keith’s back hits the wall. When Keith sees the glint in his eyes, the hair sticking slightly to his forehead, his stomach does a somersault. He desperately wants to melt into the wall, but a bigger part of him kind of loves the focused, smug expression on Lance’s face and the way the neons highlight his high cheekbones.

He starts when Lance closes the last few feet, until his blaster rests on Keith’s vest. This close, Keith has to look up at him. And for the first time, the thought explicitly crosses his mind:

_Lance is ridiculously attractive._

Lance pulls the trigger and Keith’s chest vibrates on impact.

 

 

This very corner in this very laser tag arena is where Lance made out with Allura in their junior year on a double date with Jimmy Yang and Lindsey Kim. When the memory invades his brain, all he can think about is replacing the image of Allura with Keith. Pressing _Keith_ into the wall, forgetting about Allura and Hunk, and being a giddy teenager with Keith’s hair in his hands.

He only realizes exactly what he’s doing when his gun presses into Keith’s vest, and he sees his feet carried him just. That. Close. He’s a second from leaning forward, giving in…

Instead, he pulls the trigger.

“Fuck!” Keith yells, twisting out from under Lance. “That’s cheating!”

“How is that cheating? You were just standing there!” Lance sputters. He shoots again and scores another point.

“You—I mean—whatever! I’m beating you!”

“Obviously, you’re not. How many times have I hit you? You can’t escape me, Keith,” Lance says with a grin.

Keith’s face screws up, and it just shouldn’t be cute how disgruntled he is about laser tag.

“How about we call a truce?” Lance finds himself offering. “We team up against them. Hunk is terrible at laser tag, and I want to beat Allura. You and me against them.”

Keith frowns, almost a scowl, but he seems to consider his options. Stay with Hunk and lose. Or team up with Lance and _win._

“I’m in,” he says. “Hunk is hiding under a ramp on the other side of the arena.”

Lance whoops, to which Keith rolls his eyes.

“Lead me to him, space explorer,” Lance says, gesturing forward.

“Paladin,” Keith corrects for the millionth time. He punches Lance in the shoulder and peeks around the corner from their hideout. “Don’t let me down, sharpshooter.”

“Me?” Lance grins. “Never.”

Keith looks back at him with an expression Lance can’t decipher, then nods and steps out. Lance follows. That’s become a bit of a pattern lately. 

 

. . .

 

“What about him?”

Keith squints in the direction Lance points, seeking out the long-haired man leaning over a pool table. He wrinkles his nose, takes a sip of his drink, and full-out grimaces.

“What the fuck is in this?” he asks.

“Fruity drinks are great, shut up,” Lance chastises. “Him?”

A dude in a snapback with spiky blond hair.

“He looks like an asshole.”

“You’re so judgmental,” Lance accuses.

“And this is _so_ pointless.” He drops his head to his chest and frowns. “I just got stood up. Can we give it a rest for one night?”

Hunk pats Keith’s shoulder sympathetically.

“It’s not pointless, Keith, you insufferable nihilist,” Lance says. “Come on, I told you at Trio Night. There are still more lessons to be learned at Master Lancey Lance’s Flirting Dojo.”

Allura pulls a face, and it’s not her drink. Lance resists the urge to smack her.

“I don’t want to be around to witness this,” she announces.

“Neither do I,” Hunk says. “Darts?”

Allura cheers and slides out of their high table, Hunk following—and dragging the last bits of Lance’s sanity right along with them.

“Hey, wait!” Lance calls, but Allura waves him off. “Ugh. Losers. Just you and me, buddy.”

“Great,” Keith says, dousing the word in as much sarcasm as he can manage. Lance gasps, to which Keith smirks.

“Yeah, _great,_ pupil Keith. Now, let’s see…”

Lance scans the bar again, but no new semi-cute guys cropped up while they talked. A small, noisy part of Lance sighs with relief. A larger, infinitely noisier part, maybe the frontal lobe, screams what he told Allura. Wingmen don’t date their wings. Which is to say Lance can’t think about it. Won’t even entertain it!

What’s most important is Keith’s happiness. That he gets to experience something wonderful and romantic with someone, even if it’s not Lance. And, you know, his grades matter.

“What would you even do if there was someone here?” Keith asks suddenly, the words forcing through Lance’s rambling thoughts. “The last time I threw up.”

“You were also drunk. This time, we’re nice and sober. And it’s my job to do a little introducing, a little talking up, you know. Some sparkles. Make you as attractive as possible.”

Keith slowly stirs the tiny straw in his glass, watching the ice cubes swirl around it.

Man, if Lance could take Keith on a date. He’d make sure Keith never ended up staring moodily at a drink like it’s a goddamn oracle or something.

Which, like. He recognizes that he theoretically _could_ have taken Keith on a date tonight, and that was the plan. And he might as well be the cause of this, but if Lance can help it, Keith will never, ever find out.

“If you could have any date in the whole world, what would it be?” Lance asks. Keith glances up at him and purses his lips in thought.

“It’s a full moon,” he replies. “He leads me inside blindfolded. When I take it off, we’re inside a publishing house, and he’s handing me a million dollar contract to for my novel, _Voltron: Legendary Defenders,_ including licensing for comic books. Throw in a TV show, too. Hell, some figurines.”

Lance bursts into laughter and smacks Keith on the shoulder.

“Be serious!”

“Lance? Serious?” Keith mocks.

“Fuck off, asshole. I really want to know. If I—someone could take you anywhere, where would you want to go?”  

His straw stills, and he taps against its side thoughtfully.

“Anywhere?”

“Well, realistically. No one can take you to the moon,” Lance reasons.

“Well, fuck. There goes my second option.” Keith smirks, then wipes it off into his concentration face. Lance watches the gears turn in his head, imagines his thought process. Finally, he sort of shrugs and says, “Maybe somewhere fun. Like a state fair.”

“Oh, wise choice.” Lance nods. “Why?”

“Dunno. I’ve never been. I’m not a fan of crowds, but it sounds fun.”

Wait. Hold on. “Keith, you’ve never been to the state fair?”

He glances up, frowning defensively. “Yeah, so?”

“No, no,” Lance backtracks. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean, like, you’ve never seen the cotton candy lady? The livestock show? Been in one of those funky houses or ridden the ferris wheel?”

He shakes his head, resuming the slow stir of his untouched drink. And Lance’s heart breaks a little in his chest, because he can just _imagine_ the joy on Keith’s face as he murders the game booth attendant for a stuffed animal. That Keith’s been deprived of this experience is _heinous._

Lance glances over to the dart board, only to find Hunk and Allura not-so-subtly staring at them. They whirl around, and Lance swears he hears Hunk whistling as he throws a dart. It misses, naturally.

When Keith speaks up again, it almost takes Lance by surprise.

“My foster families didn’t do stuff like that,” he says, and Lance looks back at his tiny frown. “And I didn’t…have anyone to go with. But I always thought it sounded fun.”

“Stuff like that?” Lance asks.

“Trips. Carnivals. My last foster family before I aged out of the system thought their idea of a great time was a military boot camp. At least I met Shiro there.”

Keith sort of shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, but Inner Lance wants to launch across the table, take Keith by the hands, and yell at his face about how he deserves every goddamn aquarium and theme park in the world. Instead, he chokes those words down and chooses a simplified version.

“Well, you deserve that,” he says. Keith looks up through his eyelashes, made almost impossibly small by his unsure expression and hunched posture. “If I’d been there, I would’ve made sure of it. I’d have taken you to every state fair in the state. Which, like, is only one, but you get my point.”

“Why?” Keith asks.

“Because…” Lance flails his hands in a desperate attempt to convey a message he’s not even sure he knows. “I like to see my friends happy. And, you know. You deserve to be happy.”

Keith buries his face into the crook of his arm, and Lance can only hear the muffled tail-end of his, “Thanks, Lance.”

“Plus,” Lance continues, poking Keith in the arm until he looks up again, “I bet you’d like the scary fast rides, and Pidge and Hunk refuse to go on those with me.”

Finally, _finally,_ Keith’s smile comes back. “Hunk I can understand, but Pidge?”

“She just likes to look at the exhibits and talks about the dangers of half-assed ride mechanics.”

“Should I be worried about half-assed ride mechanics? Should I go at all?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Keith. It’s all about the memories. Pidge ranting about ferris wheel operators is close to my heart, even if it doesn’t affect my desire to go on ferris wheels,” Lance says. “I even remember the first year I went when my family just moved here. They got tickets to see Snoop Dogg in the arena. Just picture me, four years old, all four of my siblings, and my parents who don’t speak any English, at a Snoop Dogg Concert.”

“Nope, never done that,” Keith snorts. “Shiro took me to see a concert once when I was 15. He had to carry me out of the mosh pit.”

“Was it My Chemical Romance? Falling in Reverse? Pierce the Veil?”

“Shut up.” He takes a sip, then admits, “It was All Time Low, actually.”

“Oh, I couldn’t have guessed, what with your emo mullet and leather jacket,” Lance gasps.

“You said you liked my jacket!” Keith says indignantly.

“I—I never said that!”

Keith snorts and downs the rest of his drink. “Keep telling yourself that. Darts?”

“I’ll beat your flat ass, Kogane,” Lance warns, because insulting Keith is Lance’s best defense against him.

“Oh? Like you beat my ass at Mario Kart, where I won first every single race?”

“That didn’t happen!”

But Keith’s already out of his seat, giggling as he heads towards Hunk and Allura. Thank God, because Lance can take a moment to rub the blush from his cheeks.

And in the back of Lance’s brain, just a tiny thought wiggling its way through his synapses begins to take shape. He imagines what Keith might look like under the bright lights of a fair, laden with prizes won by Lance’s talented hand and grinning so hard it hurts.

Yeah, Lance wouldn’t mind seeing that.

 

. . .

 

“Hold this, please,” Hunk demands, handing a bag of brown-colored icing to Lance. He holds it dutifully, while Keith on the other side holds a lighter shade of brown icing. Hunk turns back to his mixing bowl, vigorously running a whisk through what he explained was royal icing.

Keith looks sort of worried, in the way that his gaze looks far away, and he barely notices the icing squeezing out of the nozzle tip. Lance tears his eyes away for the fiftieth time that day.

“Buddy, I can’t tell what you’re gonna ice these cookies to look like,” Lance says, craning his neck to see the third mixing bowl color. Brown, again.

“Rocks,” Hunk answers, like it’s obvious.

“Riiight. Rocks.” He shares a look with Keith and circles his index finger next to his head, to which Keith can’t help but snicker. Finally, a fucking smile out of the guy. Lance tamps down the butterflies crowding his throat.

“I’m meeting Shay’s family this weekend, and they’re all geologists. I’ve already met her brother, and I left a less-than-desirable impression, so baked goods are my last chance to look good for them.”

“So, rocks.”

“Yes, rocks!

“Why not cool looking minerals, like diamonds or something?” Keith wonders.

“Because each of those has a meaning, Keith, and I’m not going to mess up by making a gold cookie, only for Rax to pick it up and ask me why I made pyrite cookies for Shay!”

“Pyrite?” Keith asks dumbly.

Hunk stands up straight, a frantic look in his eye. “Fool’s gold, Keith! Don’t you pay attention in class?”

He shrugs, and Lance snorts.

“Anyway,” Hunk says, returning to his frantic mixing. “I have to get these right. If I don’t, I’ll never be accepted.”

“Please, Hunk. You’re a sweet confection all by yourself. If they don’t accept you, they’re just plain wrong,” Lance scoffs.

“Aw, shucks.” Hunk elbows him playfully, then sets about creating a third bag of royal icing.

Keith and Hunk lapse into concentrated silence, although Lance can’t for the life of him figure out what Keith’s concentration is. His story thingy? Rocks? Mineral classifications?

Finally satisfied, Hunk takes the bag of icing from Keith and begins on his shortbread cookies, tongue stuck between his teeth and a very real single drop of sweat on his brow.

But when Keith speaks up again, he flinches and streaks the cookie with the color.

“How did you know you like Shay?” he asks.

“Huh?” Hunk splutters.

“Ugh, it’s not a weird question.” Keith crosses his arms. “I just have to know for my book, or something.”

“Like, how did I know I had a crush on Shay?”

“Yeah…like that,” he mumbles, picking at a thread on his shirt.

“That’s not a stupid question,” Lance says. “I bet it was a mutual love for rocks.”

“Not close at all, man,” Hunk laughs. He smiles, really perfecting his Gentle Giant image, and switches icing bags with Lance. “I mean, I guess it’s kind of a tough question? I don’t know if there was a specific moment…I just thought, wow, I really admire these qualities in Shay. And then I thought, wow, I _really_ admire these qualities in Shay.”

“That’s too vague,” Keith replies.

“Haven’t you had a crush before, Keith?” Lance asks.

Evidently, that was the wrong question. Keith tenses, drawing back into himself, and Lance steps forward before he even registers his own movement.

“I mean--”

“No, no, I know what you mean. I’ve thought about crushes enough to know I’m gay, but.” He shrugs, almost helplessly. “I never had the time to really have a big one.”

There’s something he’s not letting on. Lance can tell it dances on the tip of his tongue, but he also knows not to press. Instead, he waves a blasé hand and replies, “Different paces for everyone.”

Keith nods, averting his gaze to the floor. Hunk straightens again, twisting the icing bag idly in his hands.

“It kind of feels like butterflies,” he says. “It’s kind of cliché, but when I see Shay, or when she does something cute, it’s like.” With a wave of his hand, Lance imagines the butterflies he knows all too well bursting forth from the motion. “It’s like a flurry of emotions.”

“And you think about them all the time,” Lance pipes up.

Hunk laughs and nods. “Oh, man, I remember freshman year of high school. You talked about Allura all the time! Every single thing out of your mouth was Allura this, Allura that. Did you see her walking to cheer practice today? Did you know Allura is the best in our math class? Have you seen her hair today, it’s soo cute.”

“Yeah, I get it, Hunk,” Lance interrupts.

“But when you actually got together, it got even worse! You couldn’t believe it. Every day started with a conversation about what happened with Allura yesterday.”

“Alright, we get it, Hunk.”

“For three years.”

“Your point’s made! It was that cliché, overwhelming first love. Not all crushes are like that, but, um.” Lance pauses, casting a hesitant glance towards Keith, only to find him already staring back. “Some are.”

Suddenly, Hunk clasps his hands together, knocking a cloud of powdered sugar into the air.

“Potty break!” he announces, and immediately makes a break for the bathroom.

With a space between them, Lance closes it, leaning against the counter next to Keith.

“I have had crushes before,” he mumbles. And there it is. So, he _was_ holding something back.

“Ooh, give me the juicy details.”

“There are no details,” Keith says with a roll of his eyes. “Liam in the fifth grade. I punched him during recess, and that solved that problem.”

“Why does that sound exactly like something young Keith would do?”

“Shut up! Then there was Bobby Cho in high school, but he made it very clear he didn’t like gay boys.”

Keith worries his icing bag even more, so Lance sets his down and takes Keith’s hands in his own, untwisting them. Totally, one hundred percent not a selfish move. He doesn’t miss the way Keith’s breath hitches, the way he glances up through his eyelashes at Lance.

“I don’t know how you’ve had so many fucking crushes.”

“Sometimes it’s just infatuation,” Lance says. “Like all those people in Nebraska? Honestly, I was just infatuated with them. Not a real crush in sight. But I think when you get a real crush, it’s kind of hard to ignore.”

Keith looks down at their hands, and Lance belatedly jerks away his own.

“How do you know if it’s more than infatuation?”

“It’s like...” Lance rolls potential relies around on his tongue. “Like I said, I think about them all the time. How they’re feeling, what they’re doing, if they might feel the same as me. It’s like longing. Crushes always felt like homesickness to me.”

A longing that washes over Lance, pulls him right under, when Keith tilts his head and Lance yearns to know the curve of his jawline on his palm and just how chapped those lips are.

Oh, God. He’s being obvious, isn’t he? That he’s talking about Keith? If Hunk were here, he’d know Lance is being completely obvious.

But Keith really is just that dense, because the deeper meaning of Lance’s words doesn’t even reach his ears.

“I don’t get homesick,” Keith says. Then he cocks his head in question. “Why do you?”

“You know I’m Cuban. Most of my family is still back on Cuba, and, man, sometimes you just miss a good home-cooked meal and the ocean.”

“I’ve never seen the ocean,” Keith remarks, almost offhand.

As the bathroom door bangs open again, Lance gasps.

“Keith! We’re only six hours from the coast! How could you never have seen the ocean?!”

Keith’s lips quirk in a ghost of a smile, and he says, “Dunno. Never had the chance.”

“You’re an enigma, Keith,” Lance mutters under his breath. “All you Arizona natives. Never getting out of the state for once in your goddamn lives.”

“Okay!” Hunk exclaims. “More rocks! Where’s my medium brown.”

Keith holds out his icing bag, Hunk thanks him with a curt nod and gets right back to work.

Lance chances another glance at Keith, wondering idly what he would think of the ocean. He’s kind of similar, really. Lance sees the surface, but he never really has a clue of what lurks beneath until he dips below.

And another thought wiggles through the synapses of his brain and makes its way to the forefront.

 

. . .

 

“I assume at this point in the semester you haven’t bothered to know your desk partner, so turn to them now and work in pairs to study for the test,” the professor says. “Yes, this is my excuse to take a nap. No, don’t tell my superiors. Carry on.”

As the professor lays their head on the desk, Allura turns to Keith and picks up her pink pencil.

“I’ve already made a study guide, so here’s a copy,” she says, handing him a slightly intimidating packet. She narrows her eyes. “Why are you so tired?”

Keith groans as he picks up his own pink pencil. “Hunk made cookies for Shay, because he’s gross, and we stayed up all night helping him.”

“We as in…?”

“Lance and I.” He bites his lip and forces himself to read the first question, not think about the conversation they had last night about _crushes._ Because it’s stupid. That Keith asked them about crushes.

And he thinks back to the laser tag arena. Just the thought makes a blush creep up his neck, and he scrubs at it like it’ll go away.

“Lance, hm?” she says, twirling a lock of silver curls around her fingers. She leans in. “You do remember when we said anything in this room bout Lance will remain confidential?”

Keith squints at her. “Yeah?

“Alright, just wanted to make sure. You can tell me anything.”

Yeah, no, it sounds extremely awkward to tell your crush’s ex-girlfriend that you might—Keith looks away again and begins scribbling the first answer on Allura’s packet. Geography, geography…Fault lines, igneous rocks, the smirk in Lance’s eyes when he pressed the muzzle of the laser gun to Keith’s chest.

He’s so deep in desperate thought that it’s a little—scratch that, it’s a jarring surprise when they get a fourth of the way through the study guide and Allura says, a smile playing on the corners of her lips, “Lance really is _quite_ the kisser.”

“Um,” Keith stutters. “Okay?”

“And don’t get me wrong, we have broken up. But if there’s one thing I miss—”

“Why are you telling me this?” Keith interrupts, heart racing just a little.

“Oh, no reason. I’m only reminiscing. If you’re having any trouble on problem 13, I have notes for that.”

Keith shoves away the tiny bit of dread building in his stomach, refocusing on the study guide.

Except Allura keeps talking.

“I remember when he first asked me out,” she begins again, and the dread festers again. Why is she _thinking_ about this? “He likes to think he’s suave, but when it comes to people he actually cares about, he becomes fifty types of flustered. It was unbearably cute, if not a little annoying, when he showed up on my doorstep asking me to homecoming and his boombox didn’t work.”

“Boombox?” Keith can’t help but ask.

“He’s an incredibly traditional romantic, grand gestures and everything. Like, oh, the time he drove me to see the Grand Canyon during spring break.”

“…He did?”

“Mhm. Have you got problem 13?”

“Calcium carbonate,” Keith says absently.

Suddenly, images of Allura and Lance kissing bombard Keith’s head. Allura and Lance. Because they probably did a lot of that when they were together, right?

“Earth to Keith?” Allura asks, waving her hand in front of his face.

Keith blinks once, twice. “What?”

“I was just saying that…” She bites her lip and sighs. “Never mind. Would you happen to know 14?”

Keith glances down at his paper. The words swim slightly before him, but he clears his throat and nods, picking up the green pencil.

“And just to reiterate,” Allura continues. She places a hand on top of his, squeezing in what Keith assumes is a show of comfort, “I really am here for you. You can talk to me about anything.”

“Right,” Keith says, raising an eyebrow.

Allura leans forward, almost looking up at him with an adamant expression. “ _Anything_.”

Keith shifts uncomfortably, but he manages what must be a small smile.

“Right,” he repeats. “Question 14?”

 

. . .

 

“Keith.”

A voice. Touch, on his shoulder. Keith groans in protest and buries deeper into his sheets.

“Keith, come on, you big, sleepy baby.”

“No,” he protests weakly into his pillow.

Another touch, and then two hands roll him away from his pillow. Keith cracks open his eyes to a bleary face hovering above his. Big, blue eyes, hazy around the edges. Soft brown hair, the kind you could card your fingers through for hours if he let you. He might.

“Keith, you awake, man?” a soft mouth asks, and that makes Keith blink the sleep from his eyes to sharpen the image of Lance sitting on the edge of his bed.

He glances at the angry red numbers on his alarm clock.

“Wha—Lance. It’s three a.m.,” Keith grumbles.

“Yep, it is. Time for you to get dressed and pack a bag,” Lance replies, a massive grin on that soft mouth.

Why is Keith thinking about Lance’s mouth? Why is it three a.m.?

“Is it the apocalypse?” Keith asks. “I was sleeping, Lance.”

“And now you’re not! But I promise, it’s a lot better than the apocalypse.” Lance pulls gently at Keith’s shoulder. “I’ll pack for you.”

“What?” At ‘pack’, Keith drags himself into a sitting position and rubs his eyes. When he opens them again, he notices Lance is already fully dressed. “Why are you wearing a jacket?”

“We’re going on a trip,” is all he explains with a twinkle in his eye.

Lance gets up, and Keith watches him pick up his school backpack and take the binder and notebooks out.

“Where’s your clothes?” he asks, holding the empty bags. Lamely, Keith points at the dresser.

Lance pulls out a couple shirts and a pair of jeans and shoves them into the bag. He digs around in the drawer for boxers and socks, too. And all the while, Keith’s sleep-rattled brain gradually catches up with what’s happening.

“A trip?”  he asks, probably three minutes later.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “You can sleep in the car, if you want. I’m driving.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” He waggles his eyebrows, then takes another change of clothes from the dresser and tosses them onto Keith’s bed. “Get dressed.”

Keith hauls himself out of bed, taking a few shaky steps before righting himself on the edge of the desk. Lance gives him another smile and backs out of the room, bag in hand, so Keith can change for…a trip, Lance said.

A minute later, Keith emerges from his bedroom to Lance grabbing food from the cabinet and shoving it into a plastic bag. He drops it down next to a duffle. His own bag? And turns around to see Keith standing dumbly in the middle of the living room.

Lance takes a second to say anything, just kind of staring at Keith in a way that should unnerve him, but this early, with his state of mind, it only feels a little warm. Keith scratches at his no doubt bedhead and says, “I’m awake.”

“You are,” Lance replies. He hands Keith his backpack and picks up the duffle and food. “Alright, let’s go. If we leave right now, we should make it before a lot of the morning crowds.”

“Wait.” Keith disappears into his bedroom again, then comes out with a notebook clutched to his chest. “Okay.”

Keith still has no clue where they’re going, but he doesn’t question it this time. He follows Lance out of the dorm, down the stairs, and to a van in the parking lot.

Lance puts their bags in the back of the van, then opens the passenger door for Keith. They climb into the car. The rumble of the engine interrupts the stillness of three a.m., a gentle purr above crickets and soft street lights.

Keith blinks once, twice. He watches Lance, who shifts the van into reverse and backs it out of the spot. Before he puts it in drive, he glances at Keith. His look, this soft look in the downward knit of his eyebrows and the curve of his lips, elicits a similar rumble in Keith’s chest.

The van is nice. Warm. Keith’s never been in a car with Lance before, but he doesn’t need to think about trusting him behind the steering wheel. He lets himself relax against the headrest, his eyelids already fluttering.

“Sleep, Keith,” Lance murmurs, his voice already farther than it must really be.

Keith nods. It tugs at the corners of his conscious. He drifts off again, soothed by the low radio Lance turns on and the subtle hum of his voice.

 

. . .

 

The next time Keith comes to, it’s to the crunch of tires over gravel. The soft music clicks off, leaving only a distant beep that becomes clearer when he opens his eyes.

He groans at the crick in his neck as he sits up. It takes him a moment to remember why he’s in a car and not waking up in the dorm. The sun just peeks over the edge of the horizon, bathing the sky in a warm blue tinged by orange. Outside the front windshield is a decrepit gas station store backdropped by endless beige desert. When he looks to his left, the driver side door is ajar next to a gas pump.

Keith stretches his arms and opens his own door to step out and stand for a few seconds. He breathes in the dawn air, always made crisper by the night before. The place reminds him of how he feels in his dad’s cabin, though he doubts Lance is taking him anywhere near there.

The door to the gas station store swings open and out saunters Lance. He doesn’t look any particular way, just in his usual tank top and shorts, but something in Keith’s chest catches anyway. It’s the same thought that’s been running through his head since laser tag: he’s attractive. And at dawn, with his sun-kissed skin and keys twirling around his finger, he’s unbearably so.

“Keith, you’re alive!” Lance says, coming to the driver’s side and taking a Red Bull from the bag before throwing it onto the car floor. “I had to check your breathing, like, an hour into driving. I’m so used to my siblings snoring like truckers, but you’re so quiet.”

“Where the hell did you kidnap me to in the middle of the night?” Keith asks as Lance pops the tab of the energy drink and drinks.

“We’re in Yuma now, right next to the border, but we still have a good two hours of driving,” Lance explains.

“Until?” Keith raises an eyebrow.

“Why, San Diego, of course,” Lance says. “You made me think of the ocean, and I know you’ve never seen it, so…” He shrugs, takes another sip. “Thought I would take you with.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Yep.”

“Does Hunk know?”

“…Yes,” Lance says. “After I text him, he’ll know.”

And Keith can’t help but laugh. The pump beeps, letting Lance know to finish up. Then he climbs into the van, and Keith does the same. He spies the energy drink and remembers Lance was probably up a half hour before he even woke Keith up.

“I can drive,” Keith offers.

“Absolutely not,” Lance says. “I’m the one bringing you across state lines. You can drive on the way back.”

“But—”

“Nope!” He waves a hand, then turns the radio on again. “Can’t hear you, sorry. I’m pretty sure I’m alone in this car.”

“Lance!” Keith shoves at his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, watch it! What if I crash? What are you going to tell Tall and Broad?”

Keith gasps. “Shiro!”

He glances at the clock. After six. Oh, fuck, he’s probably on his way to the gym right now. Keith digs his phone out of his pocket (that he remembered to bring it at all deserves an award) and dials him.

“What’s up, Keith?” Shiro greets.

“I can’t come to the gym this morning,” Keith says. Lance wrinkles his nose.

“Oh? Well, alright. I’ll just spar all by my lonesome. Why?”

“I’m, uh,” Keith stutters. Lance points at a sign on the edge of the highway: _Welcome to California._ “I’m in California.”

A pause, and then, “What?! You’re in—Keith, what are you doing there?”

And it fills Keith with a strange sort of exhilaration to glance at Lance and reply, “Lance and I are going to the coast.”

“Mm, I see. Annoying roommate Lance…I’m glad to hear you’re friends now.” There’s something left unsaid in the tone of his voice, and Keith doesn’t like it. “Well, this will be good for you. I think Professor Coran would approve.”

“Shiro—”

“Don’t let me bother you two anymore! Have a good time, Keith.”

“Fine. Bye.”

Shiro hangs up, and Keith takes a moment to just stare out the window at the endless desert stretching on either side. Too many thoughts racket around his brain. For a moment, the van feels claustrophobic despite the wide empty space around them. Too closed in. Too close to—

“Oh, I love this song,” Lance says, twisting the volume knob on the shitty old radio in the car.

“The sun isn’t even up all the way,” Keith groans.

“ _I’m slipping into the lava, and I’m trying to keep from going under!_ ” Lance croons. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the words, Keith!”

Keith rolls his eyes, but he totally knows the words, thanks Shiro. And he feels the smile on his face, the notes curling around his chest. So he opens his mouth and sings with Lance as the cacti and shrubbery roll past.

 

. . .

 

The first glimpse of an even more endless blue over the edge of the horizon sends Keith reeling.

“No way,” he whispers, leaning over the dashboard to get a better look. Lance laughs as the high way takes another turn, and that strange strip of blue disappears behind another building. “There’s no way!”

“Keith, I lived on an island for the first four years of my life. There’s a way,” Lance says. “Half an hour, and then we’re _really_ there.”

He didn’t lie. Half an hour later, and the van takes a right onto a highway mere yards from the coast. Keith inhales sharply, because _there._ There is the ocean.

“This looks like a premium beachside location,” Lance says, turning into a strip of parking lot beside the beach. Not a second after he parks does he throw open the driver door and step out.

Keith takes a moment to look. He’s seen pictures, duh. But it’s nothing compared to the real deal.

“What are you waiting for, Keith?” Lance yells as he yanks off his shoes and jumps straight into the sand.

What _is_ he waiting for? That’s the question of the year. Keith follows him out of the car, stepping out of his sneakers before the edge of the asphalt and staring down at the sand. He steps in, both feet. And he looks up to Lance’s wildly grinning face, and he smiles, too.

“Well?” Lance asks, hopping in place a yard or two away.

Keith digs his toes in, feeling the way the warm sand shifts around him. “You weren’t lying to me. This is the ocean.”

“I’ve never lied once in my whole life and I’m offended you think so lowly of me,” Lance says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Lance takes off, sprinting across the sand towards the blue beyond, his short hair whipping in the wind. Keith rolls his eyes and jogs after.

“I’ve missed this so much!” Lance yells when he reaches the water. Keith watches him run straight in, letting it wash right up to his knees as he stretches his arms into the air and whoops.

Keith comes up to the edge where the dry sand darkens with ocean water. Foamy white waves lazily wash onto the shore in scallop shapes. In the next wave, it brushes against his toes. The temperature is bitterly cold, but apparently that doesn’t stop Lance from wading in to the edge of his shorts and letting his fingertips drag along the waves as they roll past.

He steps in a little farther, lets the water rush in over his feet and dig out the mud underneath.

Keith wants to commit this to memory. He pictures a handout a professor had given him last semester about using the five senses in description.

Sight: A vast expanse of smooth teal water, glittering in the rising sun. Sand, whiter and smoother than the desert, stretching for miles along the ocean’s edge. Lance, seconds away from disappearing beneath the waves altogether, with a smooth, glittering smile of his own radiating with a joy Keith hasn’t seen on him before.

Hearing: If Keith closes his eyes, he can hear the wash of the shore, a back and forth of in and out, like a conversation between sea and sand. In the distance, the cries of gulls and peals of children’s laughter. And, of course, Lance’s yelp as he wades just a bit too far in.

Smell: A tang of salt he hasn’t known before, an ocean breeze that clears his nose and smells a bit like joy, like freedom, like Lance coming home.

Touch: The sand beneath his toes, muddy and grainy. The water curling around him, a jolt of cold that melts into something smooth, like what Keith imagines the palm of a mother’s hand might feel like.

Taste: Salt, again, on the tip of his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Seafood, maybe. To Lance, it must be familiar.

“What are you standing there for?” Lance calls, and Keith opens his eyes. “I’m gonna pull you in if that’s what it takes!”

“We’re not wearing swimsuits!” Keith yells back, but Lance is already splashing towards him. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Oh, I’m daring.” Lance smiles this devious smirk and grabs Keith’s arms.

Keith yelps, but it’s no use. For how wiry he is, Lance has a strength Keith couldn’t have known otherwise. He drags Keith farther until the water rushes around his calves.

“Don’t even think about it!” Keith warns again.

“You act like this wasn’t my first goal,” Lance says, and he wraps his arms around Keith and drops into the ocean.

 

. . .

 

Later, when they drag themselves out of the water and the beach begins filling with more families, Lance arranges beach towels stashed in the back of his van on the sand and collapses face down on one. Their soaked shirts lay out across the sand, and Keith opens his notebook as Lance sighs deeply.

“This is what I miss,” Lance mumbles, running a hand through salt-ruffled hair. Keith looks down at him, the bare expanse of his back, and looks sharply away. “It’s not the Caribbean, but it’s still…home-y, you know? It brings me back there.”

Keith keeps writing, scribbling quickly through the lines of the paper.

“What are you writing?” Lance asks.

“Voltron,” Keith says, flipping the page.

“What about it?”

Keith bites his lip, wondering what’s okay to tell Lance and what’s off limits. He taps his pencil against the page.

“One of my characters also likes the ocean,” he admits. “The blue paladin.”

“I bet he’s the best one, ‘cause he’s got it right.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. He lays down, letting the notebook rest on his chest. “I guess I didn’t think about what that really means. What _this_ would mean to him.”

“Well,” Lance hums. And Keith lets himself look again, at the corner of Lance’s eye peeking out from behind his elbow, the same dark color as the ocean. “I’m glad I can show you.”

Lance closes his eyes and breathes deeply, burrowing himself deeper into the towel.

It’s weird, hearing Lance talk about his big family and their life by the ocean. On the surface, Keith knows what it must be like. But being here, listening to Lance, brings whole new depth.

It’s weird. It’s weird, but on some level, Keith knows there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now. And that, combined with the fact that he now apparently thinks Lance is incredibly attractive, is more terrifying and exhilarating than driving to any ocean.

“You wear blue, you love the ocean, your eyes are blue,” Keith says, almost offhand. “Your favorite color is probably blue, too.”

“Nah. That’s what everyone thinks, but it’s actually red,” Lance replies.

Huh. Red. Keith sits up, turns to a fresh page, and begins writing again.

 

. . .

 

 “I have one more surprise,” Lance says as he maneuvers the van through the San Diego streets. Keith pauses his adorable attempts to brush out the salty snarls of his hair with his fingers.

“Is it food?” Keith asks.

“Yes and no. It’s food, but where we’re eating is the catch.”

A part of Lance wishes he weren’t driving so he can truly see the look on Keith’s face when he turns the last corner, and all at once several things come into view: an enormous ferris wheel, a stadium, and an actual roller coaster.

“I did a little bit of researching before driving, and it turns out San Diego has its own county fair right now. So.” He gestures towards the ferris wheel and the hundreds of people streaming down the sidewalks towards it.

Okay, maybe ‘a little bit of researching’ doesn’t cover it. Maybe ‘desperately googling which coastal city has a fair right now’ is more accurate. But he’ll never tell a soul, not even Hunk.

“Shut the fuck up,” Keith says. Lance can’t help but glance over to the expression of pure wonder on his face.

Yeah, it’s already worth it. All of this is worth it. 

“I’m taking that as a positive response,” Lance says as he turns into a parking lot.

They clamber out of the car and join the crowd leading to the fair entrance. When they come to the ticket booths, Keith reaches into his pocket, but Lance puts up his hand.

“No way, man,” he says. “I dragged you out here, so I’m paying.”

“But—”

Lance just pats his shoulder, turns to the ticket lady, and thanks her kindly for the two tickets.

The fair is noisy, overcrowded, with millions of blinking colorful lights and towering game booths and rides. The ocean air and greasy fair food intermingle in the most pleasant way. Lance watches the way Keith freezes in surprise as a gaggle of children stream past, each wielding a cotton candy stick like a sword.

“What are you thinking?” Lance asks, sidling up close—completely under the pretense of making sure Keith doesn’t get lost or overwhelmed.

“Does that sign say deep fried Oreos?” Keith points to a food stall with an incredulous expression.

“The very finest of fair food. A pure delicacy,” Lance explains. “Shiro would keel over at the sight.”

Keith snorts, then points in another direction. “Is that—”

“The Heehaw Corral Pony Rides!” Lance gasps.

“That’s just a gross appropriation of cowboy culture. Absolutely not.”

The things in Keith’s head, Jesus Christ. Lance kind of loves them.

He plucks a map from a stand and pulls to the side to read it as Keith watches teenagers attempt a ring toss.

“Okay, so there’s a petting zoo, arcade games, rides, a shit ton of junk food. What do you wanna do first, Keith?” Lance looks up at Keith, who stares back in bewilderment, like he’s weighing a million options. “How do you wanna experience the opus of childhood?”

“Junk food,” he finally decides. “Deep fried oreos. And rides after that.”

For now, Lance won’t say anything about how Keith might empty his stomach if they do it in that order. His glee is enough when they take off for a food stand.

When they finish scarfing down overpriced hamburgers, Keith yanks Lance by the wrist down the opposite way in search of the roller coaster he saw on the outside.

Just as Lance expected, Keith immediately opts for the fast and dangerous rides. He practically drags Lance onto the roller coaster, then onto two or three rides that careen them into the air while strapped semi-securely into seats. It’s exhilarating and refreshing, screaming his lungs out next to Keith, after so many fair experiences with Hunk and Pidge where it was just, you know, _fair._

Nothing against Hunk and Pidge, really. They’re just interested in boring stuff, like technology exhibitions and their lab on ASU campus. Lance might just never go to the fair without Keith again, though, because he doesn’t even have to ask before Keith’s pointing at the next upside-down vomit dome and Lance is saying, “Oh, you’re on.”

When they stumble off the upside-down vomit dome, Keith laughs, high and raspy, and turns to Lance with a little glimmer in his eyes.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Oh, no. No, no, no. Keith needs to frown right now, he needs to fucking scowl, because something _very bad_ is happening in Lance’s chest. That’s not the greasy fair food making him nauseous. No, it’s—

“Lance?” Keith asks, eyebrows knitting together. “Are you going to throw up or something?”

Lance blinks, once then twice. Is he?

No, no, he isn’t. He doesn’t suddenly have Hunk’s sensitive stomach. He just—you know. Keith smiled! What else is a guy supposed to do but freeze up and wonder if he might be—

“Fine! All dandy. Are _you_ going to throw up?” Lance accuses, straightening up and clearing his throat. Keith frowns and puts a hand on his stomach like he’s actually checking, and that just is not helping diffuse the situation. Lance looks around wildly and points at a booth. “Look! Prizes! Let’s go.”

He takes off for the booth, barely checking if Keith follows. It’s only when he gets to the counter that he even realizes what the game: ring toss.

“This is redemption,” Keith says, slapping tickets down on the counter. The attendant gives them a weird look and sets a bunch of rings before them. “You brought me here. You paid for everything. Now I’m gonna win something for you.”

Okay, ring toss is a _bad_ decision.

“Not a chance in hell, Kogane,” Lance says, grabbing a few rings for himself. “If either of us are good at ring toss, it’s me.”

Keith scoffs as he sets up his aim. One eye closed, lip caught between his teeth, he tosses the ring…Aaand it falls to the floor.

“Watch and learn, Keith. Watch and learn.”

Lance lines up the shot. Like, he’s never won a game of ring toss before, but he won’t let Keith beat him at this. _He’ll_ be the one to give Keith a stuffed animal.

He throws the ring, and it turns out he’s just as bad as Keith.

“No! Wait, I can do it!” Lance says as Keith snickers.

They each grab rings as fast as the attendant can put them down, wasting a good few bucks on a stupid rigged carnival game. Each ring wildly misses, much to the other’s delight, until they both reach for the last ring at the same time.

Lance looks up, tightening his grip. Keith narrows his eyes, determination in the downward quirk of his lip.

“Are you going to play that or what?” the attendant drawls.

In the moment of distraction, Lance swipes the ring.

“What the hell!” Keith squawks, but Lance quickly readies his aim, tosses—and wins.

“Gee, finally,” the attendant says. “Which stuffed animal from the bottom row do you want?”

Lance cocks a smug grin as Keith rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

“What do you want, Keith?” Lance asks, gesturing grandly towards the row of pitiful, almost consolation prize stuffed animals. Keith wrinkles his nose and points towards one of them. “The red lion, please.”

They place the little lion on the counter, and Lance picks it up before Keith can so he can hold it out to him.

“For you, paladin,” he says.

Keith hesitates, staring unsure at the plushie. He looks up, a faint blush creeping along his cheeks, half-hidden by his ride-mussed hair. The nauseous-but-not-quite feeling from before returns full-tilt as he reaches out and curls his fingers around the lion and takes it.

It’s more than his sharp jaw and smirk, the way he looks sleepy or just off the vomit dome. It’s…like, if Lance isn’t mistaken, it’s the way Keith smiles softly as he brushes his thumb along the lion’s scruff, like Lance just handed him a fucking gold bar.

“Thanks, Lance,” Keith says, looking up through his eyelashes.

It’s the first time the L-word crosses Lance’s mind.

“Next!” the attendant calls, jerking them out of their little bubble.

“Come on,” Lance announces, grabbing Keith by the bicep and dragging him the other way.

Keith holds the lion to his chest, and Lance glances to the invisible stars above them and prays he won’t be feeling like this for the rest of the night. But if he does…is that so bad?

“Seriously, thank you,” Keith says, interrupting Lance’s careening thoughts.

“For?” Belatedly, Lance lets go of Keith and shakes out his hand.

“Everything. The ocean, the fair. This five-cent Chinese toy. You’re—I don’t know how to say it. I just—” he cuts himself off, inhaling sharply and looking the other way.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to talk,” Lance says. He curses inwardly, then puts a light hand on Keith’s shoulder and steers him down a quieter path, behind the game booths and towards the edges of the property. By this time, the last dregs of the sunset almost disappear behind the massive rides and buildings, bathing them in a twilight with only a slightly cold edge.

“No, I want to. Just give me a second.” His grip tightens on the little red lion. “You know I…write Voltron. And it’s a really fantastical story about dumb robotic, sentient lions that form a bigger robot that kicks ass. And five people pilot the lions, and whatever.”

“Still cool as fuck,” Lance nods.

Keith takes another deep breath. “I first got the idea after my dad died. I hated foster care. The group home sucked, then the families they placed me in sucked. I missed my dad. I just wished—I wished a giant spaceship would find me and take me into space, where I could think about fighting purple fuzzy aliens instead of dealing with my own, shit life. And this character can find a—a home in the other pilots and the Castleship. Something we never had on earth.”

Lance doesn’t even realize he’s rubbing slow circles on Keith’s shoulder until he pauses, in time with the slow breaking of his own heart. He _hates_ the image of small Keith, broken and doodling lions like they’ll descend into his own sky and take him away.

“When I finally met Shiro, he helped me focus on writing instead of skipping school and purposefully failing classes. He gave me a purpose. But I never thought that coincidentally rooming with Hunk would also lead me to meet you guys. Pidge, Hunk. Allura…and you.”

He looks up. Lance’s heart might just beat out of his chest, but he manages a smile instead, pulling Keith closer into his side.

“I, for one, think giant lion spaceships are still possible,” he says.

Keith snorts. “Yeah, maybe. But maybe I like it here now. Maybe I have…”

“A brother, his fiancé, and close friends,” Lance finishes for him. “You have me. Always. Don’t think I’ll stop annoying you when the school year ends, and we have to move out.” Keith elbows him, but it doesn’t hold any of his usual malice. “And thank you. For telling me. That means a lot to me.”

Keith nods, releasing his iron hold on the lion just a little. Lance tears his gaze away, focusing on slowing the thumping of his heart. He spots a row of photo booths parked haphazardly along the edge of a building. Teens, kids, and couples huddle around most of them, laughing and waiting eagerly for photo strips.

“Hey, we should commemorate this,” Lance says.

Keith follows his line of sight, then wrinkles his nose. “Photos? You know I don’t like photos.”

“I know, but these have good memories attached to them. I have photo strips with my siblings from a literal decade ago. It’ll be fun!” Lance urges. He drags Keith to the last in the row, thankfully empty, and pulls open the curtain.

Keith hesitantly glances from the booth to Lance. He pauses so long it almost gets awkward, but eventually he nods and slides into the seat.

Mistake One: Lance suggests photo booth. Seat is small. Seat is _very_ small.

Lance wedges in after him, only then realizing that this is truly a one-person seat, but there are two of them. Keith protests as Lance shoves him aside until he has half his ass on the uncomfortable thing and the right side of his body lines up inch for inch with Keith’s.

Mistake Two: Photo booths are _confined._

Lance reaches around and puts the money in the machine, lighting the little screen up with the options. A little sign instructs them to look into the camera. The red light will go off four times for four pictures. He leans back, one shoulder practically against the booth wall and the other digging into Keith’s, and he gulps the rising panic in his chest.

“Now act natural. We only get one shot at this, and you can’t be frowning in every single one,” Lance instructs.

[Naturally, when the first red light blinks, Keith musters his biggest frown and Lance grins.](https://totesunrepentant.tumblr.com/post/184420734980/and-ill-form-the-heart-by-voltronseatbelts)

Mistake Three: Whatever bullshit Lance is about to say next.

“Keith!” Lance gasps, levelling him with an unimpressed glare. “Smile, you insolent child!”

“No! Lance, stop—”

Lance grabs Keith’s cheeks and squishes them into an approximation of a smile. _Blink._ Keith scrabbles at Lance’s hands until he successfully peels them away, gripping hard in case Lance tries to pull another stunt. It’s in that second Lance realizes how _close_ he is, how Keith holds his hands, how Keith’s mouth is a little parted, how Lance might glance down. How Keith stares right back, bewildered, eyes glassy.

_Blink._

Mistake Four (otherwise known as Mortal Kombat’s _Finish Him)_ : Lance does glance down, slow and glaringly obvious. Does Keith know? Would Keith push him away? Or would he, when Lance leans in just a little…

“ _We are never, ever, ever getting back together! We-eeh! Are never, ever, ever getting back together!”_

Lance jerks back, scrambling to take his phone out as it dawns on him what he just did.

“Sorry, that’s Allura. Um, I should take this,” Lance says, voice on the edge of panic, as he ducks out of the photo booth. He all but sprints to the other end of the line before he shakily presses accept.

“Am I interrupting your date?” Allura greets, voice oddly distant.

“Wha—date? I’m not on a date. What do you want?” Lance bites out.

“Oh? So, you mean to tell me you drove Keith to San Diego and brought him to a county fair and this is not a date?”

Lance slaps a hand over his face as the day comes rushing back to him. Driving Keith. Napping on the beach. Taking him to a county fair. Buying him food. Winning him a stuffed animal. And whatever _that_ was in the photo booth.

“No, of course not,” he retorts. “It’s not a date. Did you only call me to tease me?”

“Sadly, no. I’m in Hunk and Pidge’s lab.” Two yells, one deep and one shrill, pierce Lance’s ear. “They were wondering if you knew Keith’s brother’s number.”

“Shiro? No, but I can ask.”

“Don’t make it obvious!” Pidge says.

“Jeez, fine. I won’t.”

“Can I talk to Lance off speaker?” Hunk asks. A flash of static, and Hunk’s voice is a lot closer than before. There’s a slam that might be a door, and Lance shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Is Keith doing okay?”

“Yeah, he’s good. Almost threw up on one of the rides, but otherwise, he’s good ol’ Keith.”

“That’s good. I hope you guys are having a good time.”

Lance smiles, looks down at his toes. “Don’t think I’ve heard the guy laugh so much since I met him.”

“Well, he deserves that. And Lance?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“I’m sorry. For…implying you weren’t good enough for him. I was just worried, because he didn’t seem to be doing well, and you’ve talked about crushes for like a week before they go away. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to Keith. But I was really, really wrong, and I’m gonna bake you a million cupcakes to make up for that. Seriously, like, a bake-a-thon, or Shay can help and we can—”

“Hunk, relax. I knew what you meant. You don’t have to make me any cupcakes. But I sort of left him in a photo booth, so I have to go get him, okay?”

“Alright. You’re my best friend, you know that?”

“I’d better fucking be.”

 

. . .

Keith is really, _really_ considering what it would be like to kiss Lance. It was a terrible idea to squish into an enclosed space with him from the start, and then Lance started touching him, leaning in closer than ever before, so close that Keith glanced down at his lips—

And his phone went off. And now he’s disappeared, leaving Keith to stare at the fluttering curtain with a thumping heart sending shocks down to the tips of his fingers.

Allura’s face flashes into Keith’s mind. _Lance really is_ quite _the kisser._ Was Lance just about to kiss him?

Keith slumps against the back wall, staring wide-eyed at the curtain. _Blink._ Alarm bells and sirens bang in a distraught cacophony through half of Keith’s brain. In the other half, though, is the tiny, niggling thought: If Lance was really going to kiss him…is that so bad?

So, Keith is sure now. This is the crush of the goddamn century. Liam and Bobby are just obliterated in comparison. Did he even crush on them? Because this is fucking awful, this unfamiliar rush of feelings flitting just out of Keith’s grasp of control. He looks at Lance, and this isn’t a _date,_ but it’s a million times better than any date Keith’s gone on this semester.

A small sound whirs outside the photo booth, and Keith drags back the curtain to find two photo strips deposited in a compartment. He picks them up, and his stomach drops again at the series of shots.

“Keith? Ah, shit, I forgot which photo booth,” comes Lance’s voice from outside.

Keith folds the strips in half and shoves them into his pocket before he picks up the lion and stumbles out of the booth.

“There you are!” Lance says. Despite himself, Keith smiles and nods.

“I think the machine jammed, because no photos came out,” he says, crossing his arms. “Do you want to wait and see?”

“Nah. That’s just our luck, then. Hey, do you want to do something else before we go find a hostel?”

“I think we’re done. How’s Allura?”

“What? Oh, she’s okay. Was just, um, catching up.” He points in a random direction. “Exit’s probably that way.”

Keith nods and follows, not daring to let himself say anything else. The strips burn a hole in his pocket, as does the lion in his hand.

The distraught cacophony wins over as he watches Lance’s heels. He doesn’t want to think about it. It never happened. The photo booth light never blinked.

 

. . .

 

But Keith can’t stop thinking about it.

They switched driving duty on the way back early Sunday morning. As soon as he can, he hides the strips behind the front cover of one of his notebooks and sets the red lion plushie on his desk. He’s tempted to face it away from him, but in the end, it still reminds him of Lance.

 _Lance._ He’s in the shower, if the singing audible through the thin walls says anything. Keith sighs and scrubs his face. The clock reads close to 3 p.m. now, which means he only has a few hours until he can slip away and decompress at Shiro and Adam’s. Until then, he’s stuck here, thinking about the beach, the fair, and Lance, trying to make sense of it all. How did his annoying roommate become…this?!

The shower shuts off. Keith forces himself to close the notebook and exits his room, where Hunk’s already set up a game of scrabble in the middle of the common room floor.

“Are you sure you don’t need to take a nap?” Hunk asks, carefully flipping over the extra pieces to their back sides.

“Nah, I slept on the way home,” Keith replies as he takes a seat with his back against the couch. Adjacent to him, Hunk nudges at a plate of cupcakes.

“Cupcake?”

Keith eyes him curiously. “Any reason?”

“Nope, not at all. No reason,” he says.

“Did you stress bake again or something?”

Hunk suspiciously glances away and shrugs. “Something like that.”

Keith narrows his eyes, but he lets it slide.

The bathroom door bursts open, and a Lance draped in towels waltz through the room. Pointedly, Keith stares at his scrabble tiles and tries to make sense of C, N, A, L, F, K, and E instead of the towel slung low on Lance’s hips or the whistle between his teeth.

“I know we grew up together, Lance. I know I saw everything there is to see in the Mesa Junior High locker room. I know we’re best friends, but, man, I won’t play Scrabble with you half-naked,” Hunk says.

Lance scoffs and swats at the air as he disappears into his bedroom. Keith fends off the urge to rub his cheeks.

Is this what crushes really do all the time? Make you fucking blush? Keith isn’t here for it, and he _definitely_ isn’t here for the way Hunk side-eyes him with a smug-ass expression.

“What?” Keith snaps, ignoring the way his fingertips vibrate slightly.

“I didn’t say anything,” Hunk hums. “But you’re going first, since it’s the first time you’re playing with us.”

“How is that a rule?”

“Lance, Pidge, and I love board games. Lance usually loses, but he likes to think he’ll be better than anyone else who plays with us. His rules, you play first as a, quote unquote, head start.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” Keith muses, eying his letters.

Then Lance re-enters, freshly washed hair and slightly sticky shirt and all, and plops down across from Keith. He still looks so good. Keith has seen a freshly showered Lance more times than he can count over the semester, and this time it’s somehow _different._ In the way the shirt clings to his half-dried skin, his undone hair.

“Keith, did Hunk rig my letters?” he asks, peering at them.

Keith coughs and forces himself to stare at the board as Hunk replies, “To my knowledge, no, but he might have rigged us both.”

Like Hunk said, Lance insists Keith starts, lest his Scrabble prowess overtake him before he’s even got a foothold on the board. Keith rolls his eyes and selects his tiles carefully—C, A, L, F—and the game continues like that.

Also like Hunk predicted, Lance falls behind pretty quickly. Keith watches the totally-not-adorable scrunch of Lance’s eyebrow and snickers when he pouts.

“Scrabble is never fair to me,” Lance announces as he scoops more letters out of the pile. “Hunk is a genius at everything, Keith’s a literal writer, and English is technically my second language. Unfair!”

“Technically,” Hunk repeats.

“Triple letter,” Keith announces, placing another word down. Hunk and Lance groan in unison. Keith smirks.

 As Lance sticks his tongue out and parses through his letters, Hunk hums and asks, “So, how was San Diego?”

“Wet, humid, sandy where things shouldn’t be sandy.”

“Smelled like sea air, tasted like deep fried Oreos, and looked like heaven on earth.”

You guess which one of their replies is which.

“Well, those are conflicting conclusions,” Hunk says, tugging absently at the ends of his headband. “They’d never work in the field of science. What did you guys do?”

“Don’t lie, Keith. I saw your eyes light up. You looked like an actual child,” Lance says. He carefully lays down some tiles and continues, “I showed Keith the ocean in the morning, where I conked out from driving all night. Then we went to the county fair, and, you know. What happens at fairs.”

He ends a little weakly, shrugging his shoulders. Keith catches him flicking his gaze up to Keith and right back to the little row of tiles.

“I don’t know,” Hunk says, a little too nonchalantly for Keith’s taste. “Double points and two 10-point pieces with QUIZ.”

Lance grumbles as Hunk scribbles down his score, but Keith can’t tell what it’s for.

Keith decides to just bite the bullet. Or cupcake. They’re actually kind of delicious.

“We ate food and rode on the upside-down vomit dome. Then there was a ring toss competition, and Lance barely won.”

“Is that the red lion plushie?” Hunk asks.

After a second of hesitation, Keith nods. “And then we went into a photo booth, but it—jammed, so we didn’t get those.”

It’s Keith’s turn again. He reads his letters and a sly smile tugs at his mouth. He takes N, A, and K and places them after QUIZ.

“What?!” Lance protests. “That’s not a word! What the hell is a quiznak?”

“It is in Voltron. Triple points again.”

“Well, what the fuck does it mean? You can’t just go making up words and expecting me to believe it’s in Voltron.”

“It’s a substitute curse word so it doesn’t look like I’m cussing out children,” Keith explains, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll quiznack your face, see how you like that in Scrabble,” he huffs.

“I don’t think you’re using it correctly.”

For a fleeting moment, the tingling in his stomach and down his limbs dissipates in the familiar banter, only to return with full force when Lance sniffs and pouts. He misses the way Hunk glances between them, a private, smug smile on his own lips.

“I’m gonna take back the lion if you put another blatantly fake word on the board,” Lance threatens, shaking a tile in his direction.

“Nope. It’s mine now. You gave it to me.”

“It’s nice to know you two are still bickering the same after your fair date,” Hunk sighs dreamily.

“What?!” Lance and Keith yell in unison. “It was—That totally wasn’t—a date!”

“Who said it was a date?!” Lance continues. “We’re friends!”

Keith gulps and chances another glance at Lance…and his screwed up expression is all Keith needs to know for his heart to sink below his diaphragm.

“I don’t know, man. County fair, stuffed animal prizes. Sounds like a date to me.”

Lance cringes, and Keith musters it up in himself to do the same.

“Not a date,” he agrees. Their eyes meet for a breath-stealing moment, and Lance looks away again to stare resolutely at his board.

He bites his lip and stares at his tiles. He needs three more from the pile. He hasn’t considered it a date before Hunk said something, but now that it’s in his mind…No, if Lance says it wasn’t a date, then it wasn’t a date.

 

. . .

 

It’s later, when Keith lounges on Shiro and Adam’s couch, resolutely not listening to them talk about different neighborhoods in whatever city in Florida and whether they’re within biking distance to the university, that it dawns on him.

He puts his book down.

“If someone drove you to California for the ocean and a country fair, then paid for your ticket and food and won you a stuffed animal, is that a date?” he asks to the room at large.

Adam shakes his head and Shiro pretends to contemplate it.

“Sounds like a date to me,” he says, eerily similar to Hunk during Scrabble.

“You know I care about you, Keith, but I think obliviousness must run in the family,” Adam says.

Shiro makes a noise of protest, but the insult doesn’t even register.

Holy shit. Fucking. Quiznak. It was totally a date.

 

. . .

 

Pidge’s dad works at ASU or something, and that’s why they have a corner of the mechanics lab all to themselves. Sam Holt evidently pointed to that corner and said, “Do whatever you want except electrocute your friends” and the rest of Pidge and Hunk’s robotic adventures are history.

Or…present? That doesn’t make a lot of sense. Anyway, point is, here’s Lance, holding a wrench in Pidge and Hunk’s lab, staring at what might be a hunk of metal or the base of a robot.

“I don’t get it,” he says. “Isn’t this for battle? Where are the weapons?”

“This one’s a little different,” Hunk says from his place at a workbench, mini torch in hand and safety goggles over his eyes. Lance adjusts his own, itchy on the bridge of his nose. “We’ll get to the weapons.”

“Not everything is about weapons, Lance. Wrench.” She makes a grabby hand, and Lance hands her the tool. “Do you think this looks accurate enough, Hunk?”

Hunk turns off the torch and swivels around, inspecting her recent handiwork. From what Lance can tell (which is never much, because those two never tell him anything about this stupid Battle Bot), it might be a man without a head? And strange hands without opposable thumbs.

“Looks alright to me. I dunno, he never described anything about that part of the robot.”

“Described? Who? Come on, why won’t you _tell_ me anything!” Lance laments, snatching the wrench from Pidge when she holds it out.

“Because you have a big mouth, and you’ll go blabbing about it! It’s not that we don’t trust you—”

“But we don’t trust you,” Pidge finishes for Hunk. “And especially not after you sacrificed your beauty sleep to show Keith the ocean. That’s—” She sucks in a deep, mocking breath. “—that’s dedication!”

“What does that have to do with this?!” Lance huffs, crossing his arms. “Why do you guys keep saying it’s a date?”

Hunk pauses at the workbench, then swivels away in the chair to the wall, where he picks up a giant corkboard cluttered with various pieces of paper.

“Oh my god, we’re not having this conversation for the fiftieth time!” Pidge says in exasperation, abandoning her work to send Lance a glare. “Denial isn’t just a member of One Direction, Lance. Don’t tell me you didn’t wingman yourself into a date with Keith.”

Lance splutters, clutching the wrench to his chest.

“I mean, she’s right,” Hunk continues, picking a piece of paper off the board. “I think you wingman’ed yourself. You did it by the book…but _you_ were the date.”

“But that’s exactly what I was trying to avoid with that stupid laser tag date!”

It failed, and though he won’t admit it out loud, the second the L-word crossed his mind at the county fair, he realized he would have committed crime for it to be an actual date.

“Not that I’m trying to interrupt or anything, but, question for you, Pidge,” Hunk says. Pidge grunts. “Do you think the lion is a cobalt blue, or, like, light blue?”

“I’d guess primary colors,” Pidge replies.

Hunk sighs. “Don’t get me wrong, the parts for the blue lion are cool. But I’m excited to work on the yellow one.”

“Wait, wait,” Lance says, holding up a hand. “Lions? Weird man robot without a head? Are you guys literally making Voltron?”

At this, Pidge groans. “Come on, Hunk, be more cryptic about it!”

“I’m not that dumb!” Lance retorts. “I can keep this a secret! Look, you won’t hear a word from me.”

Pidge eyes him warily, but eventually relents with a tight frown. “Yeah, you’re not. This is our semester project, Lance, and a _surprise._ So, you know not to go talking about it, right?”

“My moisturized lips are sealed,” Lance says. “What are the weapons on this thing?”

She grins almost maliciously, returning to her work. “There’s a zillion weapons on this bad boy, but we can’t fit most of them in because they materialize from thin air. We’re definitely doing a sword, though, and maybe the wings because they make a cool ass shield.”

“Aw, sick!”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re going for.”

Hunk swivels around to face them again, a tiny metal part in his hand. “If you could pilot any lion of Voltron, Pidge, what would it be?”

“Easy question. The green lion. It’s got all the cool technology stuff. The way Keith describes the weird paladin traits, it seems to fit.”

“I’d pilot the yellow lion,” Hunk says.

“Yeah, because it’s the sturdiest and most shielded,” Pidge snorts.

“Exactly! The less damage, the better.”

“What about Lancey Lance?” Lance asks. “Which one would I pilot?”

Hunk seems to mull it over, tapping the side of the object thoughtfully. He turns back to the board and reads one of the slips of paper. Evidently, those are print-outs from _Voltron_ , descriptions of the robot and lion traits.

“Blue lion, maybe? Yeah, the blue lion.” Pidge nods in agreement. “It’s friendly and adaptable. Its element is the ocean. I think that fits you.”

“Aw, come on. That doesn’t sound as badass as technological or sturdy,” Lance complains. “Where’s the pizzazz! The super speed! How do I attack the evil aliens?!”

“No, no, that’s the red lion. That’s Keith,” Hunk hums.

“Of _course_ he gets the cool lion. He wrote the damn thing.”

Hunk doesn’t reply for a moment, just reads more as he absently tinkers with the object in his hand.

“Hey, Pidge. Have you ever noticed that Keith’s characters kind of…act like his friends?” he asks. “Even the princess. She’s kind of like Allura.”

“Maybe that’s a coincidence,” Pidge shrugs. “Wrench me, Lance.”

Dutifully, Lance hands the wrench over.

“If I’m like the blue paladin and Allura is like the princess, someone should tell them now it’s not going to work out,” Lance jokes.

Pidge giggles, and Hunk swivels away from the board and back to the workbench. Then, Pidge pauses and levels Lance with an unamused look.

“But, seriously. It was a date. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can ask Keith out on a _real_ date and end this torture for all of us.”

Lance gapes at her, but she just holds out the wrench and says, “Blowtorch, please,” and the conversation is over.

 

 

Is it so bad, Keith thinks, if he likes Lance? If he walked into the common area this morning, saw Lance eating cereal by the handful and washing them down with swigs of milk, and his heart stuttered? It terrifies him, duh. Sometimes it feels more than _like._ But another part of him distinctly thought, as Lance looked up and smiled sleepily at Keith, that he wants to be the one to buy the boy a damn bowl.

Each of these thoughts he punctuates with a jab at the punching bag before him. Is it so bad? _Jab._ He’s never felt like this before, but if he indulges in it. _Jab._ But Lance assigned himself as Keith’s wingman, so he’d never, you know, like him back. _Jab._ But even so, isn’t this kind of the whole point of the experiment? To fall in love? It’s not like it hasn’t crossed Keith’s mind that he wouldn’t be loved back. _Jab._ What’s important is that, when he’s done at the gym, he goes back to his room and finally tries to fix the romance between the blue paladin and the princess, because maybe he knows what it feels like now. _Jab._

Two new hands still the punching bag before it swings back towards Keith’s fist.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Shiro says as he appears from behind the equipment. “Your form is getting a little sloppy.”

“I wasn’t thinking about form,” Keith replies.

“Oh, yeah? What were you thinking about then?” Shiro smirks, that little glint in his eyes.

In lieu of a reply, Keith picks up his water and gulps down half of it.

“It’s not a certain someone, is it? Tall, blue eyes, really likes the leather jacket I gave you, from what I gather, which is nice to hear.”

Keith scowls and refuses to answer that, too. He readies himself.

“Shoulder straight, left foot turned more.”

Keith obeys. Shiro nods decisively, their old signal for ‘go’ in any exercise. Keith’s wound fist uncoils, then the other, one after another until the strain of his shoulders burns in his throat.

“Keep going,” Shiro says. “A few more reps. Be patient with your body and focus.”

Another, and another.

“Okay, good,” he finally relents. Keith falls back, sucking air through his nose and rolling his shoulders. “Good, but you’re weirdly holding back today. Let go next round.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but he feels the faint smile curling his lips, and Shiro smiles back. Shiro always pushes him like this in the gym. It’s good, Keith thinks. Not just for exercise, but for other things, like praising his writing and showing him around the English department of campus.

He saunters back over to his water bottle and picks it up. When he straightens, he catches a pair of slightly familiar eyes staring across the way. Wait, who’s that? Sloped nose, downturned eyes, lanky body…Rolo, the guy from that party. Rolo gives a lopsided smile, waves, and continues through the gym.

“Ready to go?” Shiro asks.

Keith drops the bottle and turns back to the punching bag.

And right after he throws the second punch, Shiro says, “We picked a date over winter break to move.”

Keith falters, missing the bag and losing his footing.

“What?” He stares at Shiro.

“Keep going. Watch that left foot,” Shiro orders. “It’s towards the end of winter break. Now we have to rent a truck and everything like that, not to mention find an apartment.”

Reluctantly, Keith keeps going, turns out his left foot again. It’s no longer sweat prickling the back of his neck, but dread. That’s it. It’s real. Shiro’s moving, and—and he’s going to be gone.

“I just wanted to let you know as soon as possible. Keep you on the same page, because that’s important to all three of us.”

Keith doesn’t reply. Shiro doesn’t really expect him to, he guesses.

“I wish you would tell me what you’re thinking right now,” Shiro sighs.

“I’m—kind of—busy,” Keith grunts. He throws one more and stands down.

Truthfully? Shiro and Adam moving almost slipped Keith’s mind. With Lance, it’s like he can’t think about anything else. He pays attention to Lance’s laugh, watches the way he moves, and hangs off his every word like it’s gospel.

“Can I change the subject?” Keith asks.

“As long as we talk about it later,” Shiro replies, raising an eyebrow.

Before Keith can spill the secret that’s been fighting to leap off the tip of his tongue ever since the photo booth, someone else saunters up to the punching bag.

“Hey, Keith,” Rolo says. “I haven’t seen you since that party way back when.”

Shiro holds up his hands and discretely edges away towards a water fountain against the wall close by. Keith knows, because they’ve been to this gym a million times, it’s still close enough to eavesdrop.

“Hi,” Keith says simply.

“So, you box?” Rolo asks. “That’s pretty cool.”

Keith shrugs. “It’s a stress-reliever.”

“Is it Lance? You seemed pretty annoyed with him last time.”

“No, uh.” He stalls, not entirely sure which direction Rolo wants to take this conversation in.

“Well, hey. I was just wondering if you were available on, like, Friday. There’s another party at the frat, and I’d be down to bring you with.”

“Like…?”

“Like a date. If you still need work on improving your flirting, I’m here,” Rolo finishes. He smiles, hands shoved in his pockets almost bashfully.

This must be the moment. The _aha_ he pictures when he thinks of Shiro talking to Adam in the kitchen late at night, or Hunk painstakingly drawing rocks on cookies. His heart races, his palms sweat, but Keith manages to smile in return and shake his head.

Because he might be scared, but there’s no place he’d rather be but with Lance. He’s not interested in any more dates. He wants to rewind time and kiss Lance in the photo booth, because _that’s it._ That’s it for him. And nobody else is the same charming, reckless, joyous bastard, and he wouldn’t want anyone else, anyway.

“Nah,” he says coolly. “Thanks, man, but I gotta turn you down.”

Rolo pauses, furrows his eyebrows, but says, “Sure, alright. Just thought I’d ask.” He steps away, then turns back. “It’s Lance, isn’t it?”

Hesitantly, Keith nods, and a warmth fills his chest.

“That’s what I figured. I hope it works out, man. Everyone deserves that.”

“You too, Rolo,” Keith says.

Rolo waves goodbye and heads off. Keith watches him push open the glass doors of the gym and disappear into the parking lot.

“Lance?” Shiro asks smugly, reappearing at Keith’s side.

“Shut up!” Keith groans.

“No, it’s cute! I like him!” Shiro laughs. Keith rolls his eyes and pushes the punching bag into Shiro’s shoulder. “What were you going to change the subject to before?”

“Nothing,” Keith says quickly. “I think I already know the answer.”

Amused, Shiro steps back to the punching bag, holding it steady between his palms. Keith shuts his eyes, letting the warmth in his chest spread out and buzz to the ends of his fingertips. Left foot turned out. Shoulders steady. He opens his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments fill me with warm fuzzies and joy <3


	4. I'll Form the Head!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He carefully unplugs his laptop and climbs into bed, resting it on his knees as he sits up against the wall. He glances down at Lance’s half-lidded eyes, aglow in the soft light of the laptop. Lance looks up, and something flutters in Keith’s chest. He tears his gaze away. 
> 
> “You figured out your romance yet?” Lance asks, voice heavy with sleep.
> 
> “Trying to,” Keith mutters. He rests his fingers on the keyboard, finds his spot again, and begins typing.
> 
> Only to be interrupted again when Lance says, “Read me something.”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “If you’re going to keep typing on that obnoxious keyboard, read me something. From _Voltron_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about 9k! And there's only one more after this...

_The blue paladin leans against the control center as the princess helms the ship. She pays his usual antics no attention, only preparing the Castleship to enter the wormhole. But the blue paladin is, as usual, desperate._

_“You know, princess, you have really beautiful eyelashes.” He leans forward and grins, lopsided. “I might make a wish on those one day.”_

_She rolls her eyes, though her—_

Keith frowns, fingers hovering above the keyboard. It still doesn’t feel right. Is it faked? A little forced? But what needs to be done to feel natural? He backspaces and starts again.

_The blue paladin leans casually against the control center as the princess leisurely helms the ship._

He scoffs under his breath and deletes the whole sentence.

_“You know, princess, you have really beautiful eyelashes.” He leans forward and grins, lopsided. “I might make a wish on those one day.”_

_On the other side of the control center, the red paladin rolls his eyes._

Will adding another character work? Who the fuck knows. Keith takes a second to stretch his wrists, stares at the screen for another, and begins writing.

Not a moment later is there a soft knock on the open door to his room. Keith grunts, though he secretly already knows who’s there.

“Keith?” Lance mumbles. Keith turns around, and there he is, leaning against the door frame. “Why on God’s green, blue, and other colored earth are you writing at one a.m.?”

“Sleep isn’t conducive to productive writing,” Keith replies easily, turning back to the screen.

Lance huffs a little chuckle, and Keith can picture him shaking his head behind him.

“Well, I can’t concentrate on studying with all your typing noises. Your keyboard is loud,” he says.

“Why are you studying at one am?” Keith asks.

“Forgot I had a test tomorrow,” he grumbles. “Can I at least study in here or something? Maybe if I see you it’ll make the typing…less annoying, or something.”

Keith’s heart swells for just a moment, and then he nods and says, “Sure.”

“Sweet.” Lance disappears and reappears a moment later with a thick textbook and notebook filled with chicken scratch. Without prompting, he collapses on Keith’s bed and makes himself comfortable against the headboard, textbook in his lap.

“Don’t distract me,” Keith warns, narrowing his eyes.

“Absolutely no chances. You already know I get bored easily,” Lance says.

Keith rolls his eyes, but he resumes typing, checking in right when the red paladin rolled his eyes, too. Something _still_ isn’t really right. Not just this scene, but the whole thing. The whole romance.

So, he’s figured it out. Coran’s thing about falling in love. He has to find a way to make the romance between the blue paladin and the princess believable, not just a throwaway. In the manuscript’s current state, does it even seem like she’s interested? How does Keith make sure there’s a path towards a romantic endgame?

He ponders on these questions for so long, brainstorming lists and backspacing and returning to the scene where the blue paladin throws a pick-up line about eyes at the princess, that he doesn’t even notice when Lance’s pencil stops scratching at the page. Instead, his gentle, baby fire truck snores reach Keith’s ears and alert him it’s now two in the morning.

“Lance?” he asks softly, craning his neck to see him. “What the hell.”

He stands up, stretching his wrists and fingers again. He shuffles the two paces between the desk and the bed and delicately pries the textbook from Lance’s arms, placing it on the floor with the notebook, too. He picks up a blanket discarded haphazardly at the foot of the bed and drapes it over Lance. His nose scrunches, his snores peter out, and Keith stills with his hands hovering over Lance’s shoulders.

“Keith?” Lance mumbles, eyes cracking open.

“You passed out,” Keith explains, straightening up. “Don’t worry. I’ll take the futon or something.”

When Keith makes to step away, Lance vocalizes something like a whine and grabs him by the tips of his fingers.

“What?”

“Come ‘ere,” he whispers.

Reluctantly, he crouches beside the bed. Lance, with the blanket to his shoulders and hair all sleep-mussed, blinks at him. This close, Keith notes and catalogues the light freckles dusting Lance’s cheeks, those wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“Stop writing and go to sleep,” Lance says.

“I can’t. I’m on deadline, Lance. Besides, you’re in my bed,” Keith says. He makes to move away, but Lance grabs his wrist this time, grip a touch firmer.

“At least bring your laptop to bed. I’ll scoot over. I don’t mind.”

…Which is not what Keith imagined he would say next. His eyes widen at the implied invitation.

“Don’t be a baby. I’m not letting you sleep on the futon, and you’re sure as hell not kicking me out. Just—” He wriggles around until his back hits the wall and there’s a sliver of space for Keith. He pats the other half of the pillow, then pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “There. Your favorite writing space is ready.”

“But—”

“Come _here_ ,” Lance repeats.

Keith takes a moment to gather his composure and not dwell on the fact Lance is demanding they lay in the same, tiny ass dorm bed together. Bed sharing. Because Lance…doesn’t want to leave.

Right. He can do that.

He carefully unplugs his laptop and climbs into bed, resting it on his knees as he sits up against the wall. He glances down at Lance’s half-lidded eyes, aglow in the soft light of the laptop. Lance looks up, and something flutters in Keith’s chest. Keith has to look away.

“You figured out your romance yet?” Lance asks, voice heavy with sleep.

“Trying to,” Keith mutters. He rests his fingers on the keyboard, finds his spot again, and begins typing.

Only to be interrupted again when Lance says, “Read me something.”

“What?”

“If you’re going to keep typing on that obnoxious keyboard, read me something. From _Voltron_.”

Keith hesitates. “No one’s really read it before but me. And Coran.”

Lance snorts, then says, “Well, read me something anyway. You owe it to me.”

“Wha—for what, exactly?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Probably something. Come on, Keith.”

Oh, fuck. He can’t say no, though, can he? It’s hard to find it in him to say no to Lance, lately. So, despite the alarm bells ringing in the back of his head, he searches through the document for a suitable place.

Maybe Lance would like hearing about the blue paladin. He scrolls, nervous to find a spot, and ends up switching to the second installment before he can find anything he thinks will…not impress Lance, because Keith does _not_ want to impress him. But maybe he does.

“The Blue Lion roars and hurtles into the gravitational orbit of the ice planet, careening with increasing speed towards the surface while its paladin screams in the pilot seat,” Keith begins, fingers twitching over the keys. Lance hums pleasantly, and Keith inhales deeply before continuing. “In the paladin’s peripheral, the Yellow Lion spins. Before he thinks of anything else, the surface of this unknown planet meets them, and his lion sinks into the water with a sickening crunch.”

Lance cringes sympathetically, and Keith finds himself smiling, just slightly. Sharing his writing always fills him with a sort of apprehension or dread, but he doesn’t mind reading it to Lance so much. Even though his heart hammers where Lance’s fingertips rest against the outside of Keith’s thigh, the touch is warm. Comforting. Keith knows Lance judges a lot of people on a lot of things, but he’d never tease on this. _Supportive_ springs to mind.

Yeah, it kind of feels like all of that, buzzing down to the tips of Keith’s toes.

“The tech hums and the lights come on again in the Blue Lion.” He actively tries not to give in to the comfort, to card his fingers through Lance’s hair only inches away. “’Oh, good! The blue lion’s coming back online now. Welcome back, beautiful,’ the blue paladin says.”

Lance snorts. “That sounds like something I would say.”

Keith begins to chuckle, but a sudden memory cuts it short. That sounds like something…No, that _is_ something Lance said. He remembers. Lance had been talking, no doubt about something annoying, and Keith wrote it down.

He sits up straighter, knitting together his eyebrows. How many times has he done that? Taken something from Lance and put it into the blue paladin? He’s cocksure, charming, and competitive. Not in a bad way, but in the way where Lance goads Keith into laser tag and Mario Kart…and the blue paladin goads the red into lion races and sparring.

Lance’s family, the ocean. How much he cares for his friends, the insecurities Keith knows slip around under the confidence. The blue paladin and—and all his similarities.

And Keith, who rolls his eyes like the red paladin. He can’t lie and say he isn’t inspired by himself. If no one else is going to write a novel about an orphan who escapes into space through a giant robot lion, then Keith will.

And _then._ If Keith likes Lance, _so_ much it’s almost unbearable as Lance begins softly snoring beside him—who’s to say the red paladin doesn’t like the blue?

It clicks. It’s clicks so hard it’s like someone hurled a rock at a light switch in his brain.

It’s not the princess and the blue paladin. It’s not the princess and the blue paladin _at all._ Maybe he has an aesthetic crush on her, sure. Maybe it’s in his nature to be flirty. But it’s not the princess who reassures him, it’s not the princess with which he has the biggest relationship arc, it’s not the princess who is opposite yet alike in every way. It’s the red paladin who is his rival, and then, in later books, his friend. And then, as more light switches come up in Keith’s head, his lover.

It’s not the princess. It’s the motherfucking red paladin.

He bolts upright so fast the laptop almost slides to the floor. He waits, heart pounding in his ears, until he hears Lance’s first true snore, and shoots right out of bed.

It’s the blue and red paladins. He sets his laptop on the desk. It’s them! From the first time the blue paladin spotted the other over the ridge and growled, “Oh, I’d know that mullet anywhere.” His fingers fly over the keyboard. It was always them.

That old bat Coran was right. Keith _hates_ that, but as he writes _TBP thinks he has a crush on the princess but what he really needs, what is most true, and who is really there is TRP_ he feels an ounce of gratefulness for the guy.

It’s the red paladin. It’s the red paladin. It’s the red paladin!

In the back of his mind, as he frantically types words faster than his brain can deliver them, he thinks, a bit softer, that he’d like this part of fantasy to become a reality.

Even softer, his nerves tremble, because it feels so much more than a crush. It feels…He pauses and glances back towards Lance splayed out on the bed, face burrowed into his dinner-plate pillow and arms thrown over where Keith was just sitting.

It feels like Keith might want to kiss Lance for a long, long time.

He resolves to ask Shiro later. Right now, he’s busy, because it’s the motherfucking red paladin.

 

. . .

 

It’s Keith Lance wakes up to. At the first flicker of life in his brain, he breathes in a smell not his own, a somehow incredibly familiar musky kind of thing.

He smiles, even then, and breathes deep. And when he reluctantly opens his eyes, the early morning light streaming in through the unusually open curtains, he sees Keith, slouched head down over his laptop keyboard.

Ugh. Lance went through all this trouble. Feigning studying for a test he doesn’t have, falling asleep, tempting Keith to sleep, too, only to find him passed out exactly where is worst for him.

He pushes himself onto his elbows, then rolls out of Keith’s bed. _Keith’s bed,_ he thinks giddily. He’s kind of proud of even pulling this move in the first place.

He peeks over Keith’s shoulder, finding the laptop dead. Keith’s cheek is squished against his forearm, mouth open and drooling slightly. God, he is so hellishly cute.

This has gotta be the record third time the L-word blares at the front of Lance’s brain. He doesn’t want to give it the time of day, but at some point he should relent. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep this charade going.

“Keith,” he whispers, prodding his shoulder. No reply. He shakes him slightly. “Keith, at least sleep in your bed.”

With the last shake, Keith jolts awake, picking his head up so fast it’s gotta make him dizzy.

“Wha—bonding moment! We had—Lance?”

As Lance laughs, Keith rubs the sleep out of his eyes and groggily gets his bearings.

“What the hell does that mean?” Lance asks, grinning. Oh man, if only he’d recorded that.

“Nothing,” Keith says defensively. “Thanks for the wake-up. Need to write.”

“Whoa, whoa!” He grabs the laptop charger before Keith can. “Dude, you passed out at your fucking desk. You need to sleep.”

“No sleep. Write.” Keith shakes his head and snatches the cord back.

“Keith—”

“I had the biggest breakthrough on _Voltron_ last night, and I can’t stop working on fixing this until it’s finished,” Keith interrupts. “Get me an energy drink. I need to write.”

Lance kind of gapes at him, then decides maybe Hunk will back him up and make Keith go to bed. He stumbles out of the bedroom to find the big guy already in the kitchen, scrounging through the tiny fridge.

Hunk turns around just in time to see which room Lance comes from, and he hums with a twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t say a fucking word,” Lance hisses. “Also, can you make Keith go to bed?”

“You mean he didn’t get a restful night of sleep with you?” Hunk says.

“First of all, don’t tell me you’re being influenced by Pidge. Second of all, no. I tried, but he just wrote all night, and now he’s telling me he had some sort of breakthrough and he _won’t_ go to bed.”

The twinkle in Hunk’s eye persists, and he finally exits the kitchenette and goes to Keith’s room.

“Keith?” he asks. From where Lance stands, he hears only a guttural growl in response. Hunk backs away. “Okie-dokie.”

He goes to the fridge, grabs an energy drink, and brings it back to Keith’s room. When he returns again, Lance stares at him accusingly.

“So, that’s it?” he says. “You’re just enabling him?”

“Hey, man, when Keith is in the zone, he’s in the zone. You learn not to disturb him when he’s in the zone.”

Lance throws his hands up. “What do we do, then?”

Hunk shrugs and answers, “Just ride out the wave and be there for him when he collapses on the other side.”

 

. . .

 

Three days. It takes three days, during which he might go to the bathroom and Hunk or Lance or even Pidge might sneak some junk food into his room. Three days, and at the end he stares blearily at his little blinking cursor on the laptop screen, hovering over _To be continued…_

He needs to pee. He’s kind of hungry. He might pass out when he stands up. But weird, indiscernible emotions bubble up his throat, and if he looks at this stupid Word document for one more second there’s no guarantee a Galra sentry won’t explode through his door and shoot at him before he can transform his bayard—

Definitely food. Food goo is what Keith needs.

He stumbles out of his room, half-surprised to find no Galra sentries waiting for him.

The dorm is empty, a discarded pizza box and three energy drinks they might have stocked up for him strewn on the counter. A quick glance outside a window without blackout curtains tells Keith the sun has already set for the day.

He checks his phone, hanging on to its last few dregs of battery. Sunday. Six at night. Maybe Lance and Hunk are out to dinner. Keith sort of wants to scream, because he _just_ finished fixing the damn romance, and they’re nowhere to be seen.

Shiro. It’s Shiro and Adam’s night.

“I finished it,” Keith mutters.

He scrubs at his eyes, turns around three times, and grabs his wallet and keys.

“I finished it!” he all but yells as he opens the door and marches right out.

 

. . .

 

Shiro and Adam’s apartment is only a few minutes from campus, an easy walk so Keith doesn’t have to use his car. He’s made the trek probably hundreds of times now over the last two years here, so he knows it by heart. In the summer, he takes two minutes longer to travel under building entrance overhangs and catch a forlorn whiff of air conditioning. In the winter, like now, he cuts straight across grassy lawns and through parking lots until he finally reaches the complex.

Without preamble, he wrenches their door open and falls through.

“Keith!” Adam says, looking up from where he leafs through a cookbook on the couch. “Lance said you were in a writing fugue, so we were about to call you.”

Keith cocks his head. “You talk to Lance.”

“He called us,” Adam shrugs. “You want some type of ramen or pasteles?

“Where’s Shiro?”

On cue, the bathroom door bangs open and out comes Shiro.

“Keith, you’re here!” he greets, a warm smile unfurling on his lips. A smile Keith has come to known as safe, comforting. Some tension leaves his shoulders, and he nods.

“I finished it,” he says.

“You mean your robotic lions thing?”

“The romance in the robotic lions thing. I finished it. Shiro, I _fixed it_.”

The two of them go up into cheers, throwing three arms and a cookbook into the air. Shiro gathers Keith into a suffocating hug, smushing his nose against his chest. After a full ten seconds, Shiro pulls back and looks at him expectantly.

“So? How’d you do it?” he asks. “How did you figure it out?”

“Wait!” Adam interrupts. “I have to start cooking first! Some type of ramen or pasteles?”

“Ramen!” Shiro and Keith both answer, and Adam sighs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Always outvoted in this family,” he says.

Keith and Shiro follow him into the kitchen. As Shiro helps gather the ingredients, Keith hops onto the counter. He itches to kick his legs, but the last time he tried Adam chastised him for ruining the finish on the cabinets.

“Alright, tell us how you fixed it,” Shiro says, handing Adam a bundle of leafy something. Already, Adam’s creation smells _so_ much more appetizing than hypothetical food goo.

“I thought it was the princess and the blue paladin, right?” Shiro nods, because Keith complained to him about it more times than he can count. “I thought it was them. But this whole fucking time, it should’ve been the red and blue paladins.”

“Two of the paladins, huh?”

Keith nods fervently. “I didn’t think of that. All semester. But that night—” He stops himself and looks away, his cheeks growing warmer. “It just came to me, I guess.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow and shares a glance with Adam.

“What?” Keith narrows his eyes. “You guys are doing that thing again. Stop that.”

But Shiro won’t stop smiling a little smugly.

“There’s always inspiration from somewhere. How’d you figure it out?” he asks.

Keith shifts a little. “Nowhere.”

“That’s Keith Speak for hiding his true feelings.” Shiro hands Adam a spice bottle and continues, “You can tell me, Keith.”

“I said no! That’s…confidential. Spoilers,” he protests.

“It’s spoilers? And doesn’t have anything to do with the date you asked about the other day?” Adam says. “Nothing to do with the Lance that called Shiro asking if he needed to get you IVs or something?”

“He did what?!”

“Are you saying it had _nothing_ to do with completing Professor Coran’s homework?”

Keith fishmouths, his legs stilling where they kicked against the cabinets. “I’m not—I didn’t—Adam!”

“What? I’m just saying.” But as he turns back to the pot, Keith catches a smirk.

“Don’t be so harsh, Adam,” Shiro says. “Keith has to learn these things himself.”

“Shiro!”

“But I’m genuinely curious. And I’m proud, you know. You’ve worked all semester on your _Voltron_ book thing, and you just passed a road block!” He claps his hand on Keith’s shoulder and grins. “I hope the character that says ‘Go, be great’ had an impact on you.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but everyone in this room knows by now that it holds no malice.

“Fine. Okay. I just…realized the blue paladin is a lot like Lance, and if—if _I…_ like Lance, and the red paladin is kind of like me, then it would be the same in Voltron, wouldn’t it?”

“So, you admit it out loud, then?” Adam asks. “You like Lance?”

Keith’s red cheeks burn even hotter and he crosses his arms. Nevertheless, he nods.

“Yeah. Yes. I do.”

“You know what, Keith? I’m proud of you for that, too. I’ve known you since you were a scrawny high school freshman. You’re my brother, and you know I care about you. And this is the first time I get to see you care about someone like this.”

“Shiro—”

“No, I mean it! This deserves something. My brother is in love, _and_ he wrote words on pages that aren’t a master’s thesis.”

Shiro disappears into the living room as Keith flounders again. His heart stutters, then promptly shuts down, because did Shiro just say—

“Ramen’s ready,” Adam says. “Keith, could you grab some bowls from that cabinet you keep destroying?”

Keith shuts his gaping mouth and slides off the counter.

The sit at the rickety table, ramen before them. Shiro uncorks a bottle of wine and pours them each a glass.

“To Keith,” Shiro says, raising a glass. “And Lance, and Professor Coran.”

“To _Voltron_ ,” Keith says reluctantly.

“And to Florida,” Adam adds.

Keith frowns, just a little, but he clinks his glass against theirs anyway.

“You know,” Adam continues, clearing his throat. “We’re in our last month of Sunday dinners.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Keith grumbles. He stuffs his face with ramen noodles to push down the unease in his stomach at just the mention.

Shiro taps his chopsticks against the side of his bowl, then glances at Keith.

“We have to talk about it, Keith,” he says. “It’s happening. And I know it’s going to be difficult for you—”

“Can we just not ruin the mood?”

“It won’t. Because we found an apartment to rent, and it has an extra bedroom.”

Finally, Keith looks up to see Shiro’s expectant expression.

“Wait, you’re saying—”

“That if you want to come to Florida with us, you can. It’s a good city, and I’m sure we can find another program. Plus, I’ll miss you. We both will,” he says.

A semester ago, Keith would have jumped on the chance. But he thinks about Hunk buying energy drinks. He thinks about Lance’s stuffed red lion. He thinks about Pidge’s strings of random texts, despite her strange absences. He thinks about Lance.

“I don’t…know,” he says. “I still have the dorm with Hunk and Lance for another semester. And I signed up for classes, and…”

He hopes Adam and Shiro understand what he can’t say.

“Listen to what’s most important to you, Keith.” Shiro smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No matter where I am, we will always be family. Even if it’s states away. If Arizona has what you need right now, then listen to that.”

Keith breathes out. “Thanks. Thank you. I know that. You—you cared for me back then, and I can never forget that.”

“There is one condition, though, if you decide to stay here,” Shiro says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You have to tell Lance how you feel before we leave.”

“What—no! No, that’s not happening.”

“And why on earth not?”

“Because he doesn’t like me back—”

Adam interrupts with a scoff. He adjusts his glasses and levels Keith with a bored stare. “So obliviousness really does run in the family.”

“Keith, do you remember when you asked me how I knew I was in love with Adam?”

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t tell me because you said I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s not easy enough to describe in a single conversation. Maybe there’s an instance where you know, where you think for the first time ‘Yeah, I love him.’ But loving someone is the culmination of a lot things, some of which you can’t name. It’s how I feel when I look at him, how I can be my most vulnerable around him, how I want to put effort into our relationship.”

Shiro pauses, but Keith doesn’t say anything.

“I’d say Lance knows all that. And I heard the sound of his voice when he called to talk about you. I know he trusts you to let him take you to the ocean, which reminds him of his past and family. And he has put so much effort into you. Not by being your wingman, but being there for you when you feel insecure, and showing you he’s your friend.

“If I had to pick a specific moment where I fell in love with Adam, it wasn’t anything flashy. It didn’t come with fireworks. It was when Adam smiled, and I thought I wouldn’t mind seeing that for a long time.”

 Keith stares. His chopsticks clatter to the table. He watches as Adam lays his hand on top of Shiro’s and squeezes. He stares, and his mind frays until all he can think is, _I have to tell him._

“I have to tell him,” he says out loud.

“There you go,” Adam says. “Eat your food first. He’ll be there for you after dinner.”

He fills all their glasses again. The tremor of the wine in the glass matches the tremor building in Keith. He downs half of it in one go.

Quietly, they begin discussing Florida again. Booking the moving truck. Clearing the extra room of unnecessary stuff.

Keith doesn’t want to think about Florida, so he fills his glass again. And the more he drinks, the more he thinks about Lance, that Lance might _love_ him, so he fills his glass again.

 

. . .

 

“Shiro said he could come by tomorrow for an hour,” Pidge says as she types frantically in her phone. “Professor Coran came by today. You guys are all going to be there, because we’re best friends. And Allura said tomorrow, too, right?”

“Yeah, we’ll go after breakfast,” Lance replies without breaking his stare at the plaster ceiling. The futon is kind of uncomfortable on his back, but his head is on Hunk’s lap and his legs are over Pidge’s, so it all works out. “Do you think Keith is okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, Hunk said we should be here when he comes out of his room, but we weren’t here. Do you think he’s still good?”

“If he went to Shiro’s, I bet he’s fine,” Hunk says. He pats Lance’s hair sympathetically. “Don’t worry, I regulated his caffeine intake.”

“Yeah, but—”

The front door knob jiggles, and voices come from the hallway. In the next second, the door opens and, wouldn’t you know, Keith stumbles through. Followed by Shiro, steering him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Delivery for Hunk and Lance,” Shiro says, to which Keith scowls. “He’s a little wine drunk.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Keith protests.

“He drank half the bottle.”

“Keith!” Lance tumbles off the futon and stands up, ready to catch Keith when Shiro lets him go. Keith crashes into his chest, and Lance automatically wraps his arms around his back. “Oof!”

“He’s also a little cuddly when he’s drunk.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Keith repeats, but it’s muffled where he buries his nose into Lance’s collarbone.

“Oh, I have experience with that,” Lance says. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“No problem. And we’re still doing…?” Pidge gives Shiro a thumbs up. “Alright. Have a good night.”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes. Shiro heads back to the door. At the last second, he turns around and winks at Lance, and then he’s gone.

Lance can only be confused for a moment before he remembers a Keith in his arms, and butterflies flare in his chest. Keith mumbles something against him, but it’s so soft he can’t hear it.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Lance hums, heaving Keith towards his room. “Come on, you gotta walk.”

“’s comfy,” Keith says.

“Yeah, Lance, get him to bed,” Pidge says with a smirk.

Lance flips her off and drags Keith into his room. The laptop is still open, the blackout curtains drawn again and empty cans and take-out trays strewn around the desk and floor. Lance spots the bed and his heart skips a beat when he remembers sleeping next to Keith. His plan to get Keith to bed didn’t work, of course, but he tried.

“I’m not that drunk,” Keith huffs when he rights himself. “Shiro’s just _annoyingly_ responsible and won’t let me walk home alone even though I’m…”

“Still kind of inexperienced with alcohol?” Lance finishes for him. He chuckles when Keith trips over his own feet trying to strip his clothes. “What was up with the writing fugue?”

“Oh! That! I need, I need to tell you about that. Tomorrow.”

“And why not now?”

“Because it’s important. And I feel pretty fucking great about it. Just remember that we—” He finally forces his head out the neck hole of his shirt and points at Lance. “—had a bonding moment. We bonded. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“A bonding moment, huh? I don’t even know what that is. How can I remember something that didn’t happen?”

“Nope, don’t remember, didn’t happen,” Keith mocks under his breath. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“Now you’re definitely not making any sense. You need proper sleep.” Lance grins as Keith flops onto his bed. “Goodnight, yeah?”

“’Night,” Keith sighs.

His eyes flutter closed. For a moment, Lance lets himself watch the deepening rise and fall of his chest. His nose twitches as he falls asleep, and Lance yearns to crawl in beside him, to hold him.

Instead, he backs out of the bedroom and softly closes the door. When he turns around, Hunk and Pidge look at him with twin amused expressions.

“Okay, back to planning,” Lance says. “What do I need to do again?”

Hunk shakes his head, but neither of them pry. Pidge waves her phone.

“I emailed instructions to you,” she replies. “So, get practicing.”

 

. . .

 

Lance watches the ice swirl round and round in Allura’s cup forlornly. She stirs the straw, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. All the while, she waits expectantly, one eyebrow raised.

Lance sighs, long and frustrated, and leans back in his chair.

“Well? What is this pre-Holt lab meeting about? Though I have a few guesses, I’d like to hear it from you, first,” she says.

“I have a problem,” he confesses. “And since you know Keith a little differently than the rest of us, I was wondering if you would help.”

He cringes at the last part. Asking your ex-girlfriend for advice on how to ask someone _else_ on a date should be awkward. But Allura only hums and lets the straw go to steeple her hands before her.

“I am all ears, Lance.”

Lance’s chair drops back onto four legs as he meets Allura’s eyes, excited and sparkling. Yeah, maybe this should be awkward for literally any other couple, but they know each other.

“Every other time I’ve asked someone out on a date, they’re, like, okay with it. You know? But Keith is different. I want to do it right, but I have just no fucking clue _how._ ”

“And how is he different?”

“He, just…You should know! He’s in your class, he’s your friend! Just—He deserves more than a stupid Tinder date. I can’t take him for _smoothies._ ”

“That’s not the problem. Is this how that exercise works with Hunk?”

“This is definitely the right problem.”

Allura lays one hand over Lance’s and squeezes. “Lance, I understand how this can be so terrifying for you.”

“What?” Lance balks. “No, that’s not—”

“You make a bet with someone at the beginning of the semester that you can get _him_ to fall in love, and subsequently fall in love with him yourself. And you probably haven’t felt this way since the two of us, am I correct? Lance, it’s natural to be scared. It means you care, and I know you have a lot of care and love to give.”

How dare Allura always have the ability to look inside his mind? Seriously, it’s like they spent literally half of high school attached to each other by the hip or something.

“What—no, that’s—ugh, okay, maybe a little,” he flounders. “I don’t want to fuck it up. And, you know, what if he doesn’t like me back?”

“The only way to know is to find out yourself,” she says. “And I think you made a good choice by coming to me, because I have paid attention to Keith in class, and I can help.”

“Oh my god, _please._ ”

Allura clears her throat and sets her iced tea and Lance’s abandoned coffee to the side. The rest of coffee shop bustles around them, but Allura settles her clear gaze on Lance.

“The flirting you know is how to hit on people at bars,” she says. “But if you want to woo Keith, you have to show him just how much he means to you. He values deep connections, even though he might not say it.”

“Okay, then how the fuck do I do that? And without words, because I think I’ll keel over.”

“Well, you can take some of your own tips. Stare him in the eyes and be really interested in what he says, like this.” She leans forward, and her expression changes minutely, but Lance can see the concentration she pours into her attentive gaze.

“I am really interested in what he has to say,” Lance says dumbly.

“Alright, look into my eyes.”

Lance mimics her lean and musters all his strength into his stare. She wrinkles her nose.

“Perhaps not. That’s a little creepy.”

 

 

When Keith blinks awake, Lance isn’t there. Neither is Hunk, for that matter. Keith grimaces against his mild wine hangover, then checks his phone to find a text.

From Shiro. _I still believe you can find a way to tell him._

So Keith had looked at his laptop, then at a USB. And it clicks.

There’s something incredibly satisfying about carrying a whole novel on a USB stick. His fingers curl around it protectively as he weaves through students walking, biking, and skateboarding to Monday classes.

He dials Lance’s number for the third time, holding it up to his ear as it rings incessantly.

_“Hey, what’s up. You’ve reached the voicemail of the one and only Lance McClain. I’m too busy doing awesome shit right now, so I’ll get back to you later.”_

Keith frowns.

He tries Hunk again, just to ask where Lance is. He doesn’t answer, nor does Pidge. It settles uneasily in his gut, but he pushes forward. If there’s one place Lance will be this early in the morning that’s not class or the Holt lab, it’ll be the campus coffee shop.

And he can’t wait any longer. If he doesn’t tell Lance right now, he’ll lose his nerve and _never_ do it. And, oddly enough, that sounds even worse.

 

 

“And if you run across the chance, you have to take it,” Allura says.

“I don’t know…”

“Pretend I’m Keith, and you’re you,” she continues. In a moment, she slouches her shoulders and pulls on an uncharacteristic scowl, her eyebrows knitted together in a weirdly accurate portrayal of Grumpy Keith. When she speaks, she rasps her voice. “Blah blah, some conversation about Voltron. Why do we have to know about divergent fault lines if we’re not near one?”

“Uh, because…for the final?” Lance replies awkwardly.

“Oh, Lance. I might have pretended to hate you for self-preservation, but the truth is, I care deeply about your companionship and I look forward to talking to you every day. In addition, I completely picked up on the romantic undertones of what was definitely a date to the county fair of another state.”

“This is too weird.”

“Oh, I should have remembered the great Lance McClain is such a scaredy cat.”

“Okay, Allura, that’s rude—”

“What?” she gasps. “Allura’s not here. It’s me, Keith! I hated when you asked to be my wingman to help me fall in love for an assignment, but now the tables have turned, and look where we are. Now, you said you have something to…tell me?”

Lance breathes out deeply through his nostrils, then musters up his best No-Lance-Not-That-Creepy stare.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I, uh, have for a while. Probably since the beginning, actually. And I don’t want this to ruin our friendship, but I have to say it before I explode.”

Allura’s sparkling eyes are the only betrayal from her Keith impersonation. With trembling nerves, Lance puts a hand on her shoulder.

 

 

It really is a crime their dorm is so far from the Union, but finally, Keith sees it up ahead. He takes the USB out of his pocket just to inspect it’s still there before marching forward. He can do this. He can tell Lance.

 

 

“Keith, you’re like a crotchety old man sometimes. But the feeling I get when you do smile or laugh, especially when _I_ make you smile and laugh, is, um, something I’ve never felt before. And I think, when I took you to that fair because you said it’d make a good date, I couldn’t tell myself any longer that I’m not completely head over heels for you.”

Allura doesn’t even interrupt with snarky Keith-like commentary. Instead, she stares, a little mystified, as Lance moves his hand from her shoulder to her— _Keith’s_ —cheek. Keith’s cheek, sharp, but Lance imagines it might be soft.

“Keith, I might not have helped you complete your assignment before the end of the semester. But I’m love with—Is that too strong? Will that scare him off?”

“Try it on me anyway. If it’s too strong, I’ll tell you.”

“Okay…Um. Keith.” He closes his eyes, imagining Keith before him. The trepidation of his expression, the hint of fear he usually hides so well. “Keith, I’m in love with you.”

A pregnant pause. Allura doesn’t reply. When Lance opens his eyes, she only looks at him with a soft, proud expression. She covers the hand on her cheek with her own.

“Oh, Lance,” she says. “You really are, aren’t you?”

 

 

Keith thinks back to the beginning, when he ran into Lance in the coffee shop. It’s ironic, probably. Keith had dreaded whatever Lance cooked up to help him fall in love with someone for stupid homework, but here he is now. It had worked out, though not in a way either of them intended. But, it turns out, Lance is exactly what Keith needs.

He almost breaks out into a run the closer he gets, anticipation building up in his body until he’s afraid it’ll boil over. Lance has to be there. He _has_ to. He doesn’t have class right now, so he has to.

Keith slows to a stop as he nears the doors, one hand shoved into his pocket around the USB and the other grabbing the door handle. As he tugs, he searches through the large outside glass wall to find Lance.

“—‘n love with you.”

And he freezes.

Keith’s right. There he is, at a little table pushed up against the glass. Keith can only see the back of his head, but he _knows_ it’s him, with his hand on Allura’s cheek. She reaches up to hold it with her own slender, manicured fingers.  

“Oh, Lance,” he hears her say. “You really are, aren’t you?”

The bottom of Keith’s stomach drops out. He can’t move, stuck to the door handle, as the words process in his mind.

“You’re kind of in the way, dude,” someone mumbles as they push past, but he barely notices.

It clicks. Of course. _Duh._ How could he be so stupid?

Lance is in love with Allura. Always has been. And Keith—the USB burns in his pocket, because Keith is stupid enough to think he ever had a chance.

They haven’t noticed him yet. He can get away before they do. Someone else eyes him curiously as they walk through the door he holds open, and he lets go like it shocks him. It swings closed, and he backs away, two steps, one more glance at Allura smiling so softly at Lance, and he makes a break for it.

He won’t cry, he tells himself as he all but runs in the opposite direction. He _won’t_ cry, because _this_ is why he doesn’t fall in love. Dabble in romance. Make a fucking Tinder, or let Lance teach him to flirt, or go on excruciating dates thinking all the while, _I’d rather be home with Lance._

Keith let himself believe Shiro. That’s his mistake. He shouldn’t ever have let himself believe he could love or be loved. That’s just not—this _whole_ semester, all this time spent thinking about how Lance might look at him differently, and he forgot that.

He doesn’t even know where his feet are taking him, too busy blinking back tears and swallowing past the fire in his throat, until he walks right into the English department and finds himself at Professor Coran’s door.

He doesn’t wait to knock. He just needs to get rid of this USB.

“Professor Coran—” he begins, pushing the door open. He stops short when he finds Coran’s desk littered with paint supplies, a little rocket ship in the center.

“Ah! Keith! I wasn’t expecting you,” Coran says. “Come in, come in. I’m just doing a little model painting. My pops did the same, you see, and it’s a fine hobby as a break from creative writing.”

Keith sits dumbly in the chair across from him. He watches as Coran dips a fine brush into bright blue paint, applying it in sleek lines over the ship’s body.

“So, what’s the matter, my boy?” he asks, dipping it again.

Keith swallows. He pulls his hand out of his pocket shoves the little black stick in Coran’s direction.

“I fixed it,” he says. “The romance. I fixed it. And, and Voltron doesn’t have opposable thumbs because it doesn’t need any. It has lions for hands. They just crush everything and that’s the point.”

“Well, that’s, ah, good news.”

Keith all but slams the USB onto the desk and crosses his arms over his chest.

“And you don’t have to fail me out of the course,” he adds hoarsely. “Because I did fall in love. And it fucking sucks.”

At that, Coran finally stops painting. He sets the brush down, the tip resting on a piece of paper towel, and folds his hands together.

“Why do you say that?”

“It doesn’t matter. I was going to give this stupid USB to him, but he doesn’t love me back, and this whole exercise was _useless_ , but I did it and I completed your stupid homework. So, don’t fail me.”

Keith is still on the verge of tears, but Coran has the fucking audacity to smile sympathetically, his orange mustache moving with it.

“I would never fail you for failing to complete a silly assignment I gave at the beginning of the semester,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you to actually fall in love with anyone.”

“Then what was it for?!” Keith bursts, frustration bubbling to the surface. “So I could look like an idiot? So I could go on dates that don’t mean anything and worry my ass off about this damn class?”

“I can’t tell you that quite just yet,” he says. Keith groans, but Coran only picks up that fucking paintbrush and continues drawing blue lines over the ship. “My apologies for the heartbreak, however. That is an unforeseen unintended consequence.”

“Okay, whatever, I’m gonna go—”

“But heartbreak, in a way, is like a model ship,” Coran continues, like he never heard Keith at all. Slowly, Keith sinks back into the chair. “Like my pop’s ship. He created a beautiful one, like this, but better. All the fine details. I maintained it for years, as it was one of my only memories of him.”

Yeah, Keith has no idea what the dude is saying. “…What happened to it?”

“I sold it at a garage sale for two quarters.”

“Why the hell—”

“It was time to let it go, I assume. But more than that, more important than the spaceship itself, were all the memories I associated with it. I still have those, right here.” He taps the tip of the brush against his head, leaving a spot of blue amongst the orange. “You carry your experiences with you, even if they’re over. You still learn from them.”

But all Keith can feel is anger, betrayal, embarrassment pulsing through him. He clenches and unclenches his hands. He wants to punch something, not _learn_ from the fact that Lance is probably off somewhere kissing Allura, when all Keith’s thought about since the photo booth is kissing him.

“It’s probably too fresh for you. But give it some time, Keith. And, if you’re talking about your friend Lance…don’t sell it at a garage sale just yet.”

“No, I saw it,” he immediately protests. “Why does everyone keep telling me that?!”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, standing up so fast the folding chair scoots back a foot with a terrible screech.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture. I came to give you the final manuscript, and now I have to—I have to go.”

He doesn’t know what he has to do. He doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s feeling except for the overwhelming hollow in his chest, brewing with fresh pain he can barely place from his past.

As he hurries through the English department, his phone vibrates in his pocket. _Lance._ And the stupid picture Lance set as his contact a while ago, sticking out his tongue at the camera.

He turns off his phone and scrubs at his eyes. He doesn’t know, but he knows he has to go. And he can only think of one place.

 

. . .

 

“It doesn’t have _what?_ ” Shiro asks incredulously.

“I swear, I combed the text fifty times for anything about it,” Hunk says, “but Voltron doesn’t have seatbelts!”

“It’s like all I’ve taught that kid about safety has gone to waste. And, what, the green paladin is about five years old?”

“She’s fourteen!” Pidge quips.

“She needs a car seat! She needs a seatbelt!”

“She’s a paladin in an intergalactic war with practically unlimited knowledge on technology and coding. I think she’ll be fine.”

Shiro frowns disapprovingly, clearly unsatisfied with Pidge’s answer. “She shouldn’t be fighting in an adult’s war anyway.”

“Maybe it’s, like, magnets,” Hunk says.

“Magnets?” Shiro’s frown deepens.

“Yeah, you know.” Hunk mimes two magnets attracted to each other with his fists. “Magnets. Keeps them in the seat.”

Lance snorts, curled up in a chair next to Hunk’s workbench. Allura sits on the other side, already done with her part of the project. Shiro’s up next, the paper of printed instructions in his hand. Lance’s own instructions are abandoned on the corner of the workbench. He’s already read them too many times, and he’s not gonna focus on them any more.

Shiro continues about Voltron’s seatbelts while Lance turns his phone over and over again in his hand. His conversation with Allura over coffee had sparked nerves in him, and honestly? He just wants to go the fuck back to the dorm and see Keith.

But Keith hasn’t been answering his phone, and at this point, he doesn’t even know where Keith is.

He unlocks his phone and goes through the call list again. Keith had called him earlier, but he’d been too busy to notice. And then he’d tried calling Keith once, twice, only to go straight to voicemail. He looks at the time. A little after one in the afternoon.

“Hey, Shiro,” Lance says, interrupting whatever conversation is still going on.

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard from Keith today?”

“No, not since I dropped him off last night,” Shiro replies. He checks his own phone, maybe for missed messages, but shakes his head. “He’s probably just at home.”

“Yeah, no doubt. Doing his same old brooding thing and writing.” Lance nods.

“You’re always worried about him lately,” Hunk says. “He’s probably still sleeping off his creepy writing trance.”

“Yeah…you’re right.”

Lance is just, you know, wondering what it is Keith wanted to tell him yesterday. Something about a bonding moment, which, again, Lance has no fucking clue about.

He practices his words in his head. _Keith, I love you. I’m_ in _love with you._

Maybe he should make Keith dinner. But what if Keith rejects him? Then he’ll have all this food, and he’ll be lonely, and he can’t eat it _all._

Ugh. All this thinking isn’t good for him. The last time he thought this much, he was in Nebraska, and _that_ turned into him caving under the pressure, losing a scholarship, and slinking back home with his metaphorical tail between his fucking legs.

“Shiro, are you ready, now?” Pidge asks, jerking Lance out of his head.

Shiro smiles and stands up, heading towards the seat next to Pidge.

Keith’s probably home. His phone probably died. Yeah, that’s it. Lance will go home soon, too, and _then_ he’ll think about taking Allura’s advice.

 

. . .

 

But when Hunk and Lance finally get back to the dorm, their instructions discarded at the lab and no trace of where they’ve been on them, Keith isn’t there.

“Keith?” Lance peeks into his room, but the blackout curtains are drawn and his laptop is still closed on his desk. The bed is even made. He steps inside, looking around like Keith might pop out of the shadows.

A little flash or red catches the corner of his eye, and Lance peers into the trash can. Huh. He reaches in and pulls out the little red lion. What is it doing in there?

“Is Keith in there?” Hunk calls.

“Nope,” Lance says. He walks back out into the living room, clutching the lion to his chest. “But this was in his trash.”

Hunk cocks his head with a small frown. “Didn’t you give that to him?”

“Yeah.” He looks down at it. Then he pulls out his phone and dial’s Keith’s number.

Nothing. Not even a ring. It just goes straight to voicemail, like before. And Keith hasn’t even set up a voicemail, so all Lance gets is a robotic lady droning, “The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”

“His phone’s still off,” he says. “That’s not good, right? That doesn’t feel good. Hunk, I don’t feel good about this.”

“Alright, calm down. Maybe he just went out for food.”

But Lance knows Hunk, and Lance knows if he’s feeling uneasy, Hunk’s feeling downright queasy.

“But maybe not. We left him alone all day. Maybe he went out for food, and then he got kidnapped. Maybe he’s fighting for his life right now—”

“Hunk! That’s not helping!” Lance interrupts. “Let’s just call Shiro, okay? Maybe he went there.”

Lance dials Shiro’s number. It rings and rings, Lance’s foot tapping impatiently, but finally, he picks up.

“You’ve reached Takashi Shirogane,” comes his cool voice.

“Hey, hi, Shiro. Lance again, with Hunk,” Lance says. “We were just wondering if Keith is eating dinner with you guys again tonight.”

“Keith? No, he’s not here. I thought he was still at home?”

“No, um, he’s not here, either. And his phone’s still off.”

A moment of silence, a rustle. In the background, Lance hears, “ _Adam, have you seen Keith today?” “No, not at all.”_

“Do you think he just, like, went out for food?” Lance asks. Panic now frays the edges of his voice, and he makes wild eye contact with Hunk.

“Well, no, probably not. You’re sure he’s not there?”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s not in the library or something?”

“M-maybe. I don’t know.”

Another pause. “Did Keith talk to you about anything today or last night? Something about _Voltron_ , maybe?”

Lance shifts from foot to foot and presses the lion closer into his chest like it’ll tell him something. “Ah, no? Like, last night he said we had a bonding moment, whatever that is, and he—he said he wanted to talk to me about something today, but I haven’t seen him, so. Is this about that?”

“It…might be. Don’t worry, alright, Lance? He’s not an idiot. I met him at a military boot camp, after all. Just get some rest tonight.”

“Uh, okay. I’m kind of freaking out over here, though.”

“Hey, it’ll be fine. Just wait for him at home. And if he doesn’t come home tonight…I might know where he is. Just don’t worry, okay?”

“Okay,” Lance stammers. “Okay.”

Shiro hangs up. Lance looks back again at Hunk, both with wide eyes. The panic festers in Lance’s chest, and he squeezes the lion with both hands.

“Did we lose Keith?” Hunk whispers.

“I dunno,” Lance says.

But on the chance they haven’t, Lance sits on the futon, facing the door. If he comes back tonight, Lance will be the first one to know. He’ll stay here all night if he has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love and appreciate kudos, comments, etc.!


	5. And I'll Form the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not a student. The name’s Lance McClain, and I’m actually…” Now that he’s here, he doesn’t even know what the fuck he wants to ask. 
> 
> “Ah, Lance,” he hums. “ _The name’s_ Coran. And you are here about Keith.”
> 
> “I’m…yes? Yes, yes I am. How did you know?”
> 
> “Sit, my boy,” Coran says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, we're here at the last chapter! This is around 9k. I'm, like, super emotional adding in this chapter. It's been in my head for a full year, you know? So, here we go!

When Keith’s dad died, he left some stuff in the will. As Keith grew up, the social workers always told him, “There’s a will, you know. When you’re old enough, you’ll have access to the money he left behind, as well as the keys to a small cabin.”

Small cabin is a little generous for the half-dilapidated shack stuck in a dead-end town halfway from Phoenix to Tucson. Keith remembers it from his childhood, before they moved up to Phoenix for a better firefighting job.

“This is where your Pa lived when I worked on the cattle ranch,” he had said in the gruff voice Keith can barely remember, “and where your Ma gave birth to you.”

And at sixteen, Keith played with the little rusty key on the corner of Shiro’s couch and asked, in his smallest voice, if they could go visit.

Now, his inadequate city car bumps and scratches over the gravel path. It slows to a stop, and Keith climbs out with only his notebook and a plastic bag of spare underwear in hand.

He tests the first step of the sagging porch, but even after all this time, it holds up. It always does. He opens the creaking screen door and puts the rusty key in the lock. Like a miracle, or a familiar blanket, it opens.

The last time Keith visited had to be at least six months ago, in the middle of the excruciating summer and drenched in sweat because the only working air conditioning was a fan Keith brought himself.

He had been here for a specific reason: to catalog the shack from top to bottom. From the layer of dust covering the warped wooden floor, to the sunken couch, to all of dad’s old things lining the walls. He’s never told anyone, but his dad’s shack is the same as the red paladin’s shack in _Voltron._

He had taken the bulletin board for himself, wiggled it into the back of the car so he could use it for a _Voltron_ mind map. Everything else, though, he left unchanged. Where the red paladin stepped over the threshold in the first few scenes, carrying the weight of his brother on his back, so does Keith, alone. Keith traces the spot where the bulletin board was, and where, in the book, it would be covered in research about the Blue Lion, hidden in canyons not too far from here. Even Keith’s dad’s old firefighting uniform lay untouched in a drawer in the bedroom. In _Voltron_ the black paladin wears that.

Keith breathes in the smell of dust and grime. He drops the plastic bag to the floor and sets the notebook down on the edge of the couch. His stomach growls after close to two hours of driving, but he ignores it because he doesn’t know exactly what aches. Instead, he crouches down beside a bookcase backed into the corner of the room and finds the stack of notebooks he left here at sixteen.

Most all his writing and childhood doodles are stowed tightly away in a box in his room, but these, he keeps here.

He picks up the first one, a small red spiral he got from his dad before he died. As he leafs through, the pages are brittle, and some torn to shreds from Keith’s grubby five-year-old hands. His doodles are almost incomprehensible, but he can always pick out some of them as strange robots. In the corners of some pages he finds words. _Good job, son! Proud of you. Keep drawing._

He takes a deep, shaky breath and picks up the next. He loses himself in the preliminary drawings and writings of _Voltron_ , from scribbles of fuzzy aliens to a middle school notebook with rough descriptions of characters who would later become the paladins and all their friends.

_Red guy. Fights cool. HAS A SWORD! This is what the sword looks like:_

Middle school Keith didn’t know swords with horizontal handles are bitches to actually wield, but he never had the heart to change the design.

The sun sets by the time Keith turns the last page of the last notebook. He blinks as he looks up, the last tendrils of the desert sun peeking at the back wall of the cabin.

He stretches as he stands, then rummages through the drawers for the floodlight and a pencil. He flicks on the light and sets it on the corner of the tiny coffee table, resettling on the couch with his own notebook.

When he opens the front cover, two tiny papers flutter onto his lap. He picks one up with slightly trembling fingers, though he already knows what he’ll find.

Lance grinning, Keith frowning. Lance, squishing his cheeks. Lance, staring at him, and him staring dumbly back. And then Lance is gone, and Keith stares at the space he left behind.

That’s just always how it’s going to go, isn’t it? It’s the predestined nature of everyone in Keith’s life. It’s the same dilemma he’s had since foster care, lugging everything around in a plastic bag as foster families disappeared left and right. First his mom, then his dad. He’s just been waiting with clenched fists for the ball to drop on Shiro.

Now, he guesses it has. Because it always does. And why should Lance be any different?

Why should any of them be? Look, Keith’s never been great with people. He never left a foster home on good terms. And if he believed Shiro about Lance, but he’s _wrong_. Maybe he’s wrong about Hunk and Pidge, too. Maybe he’s even wrong about Shiro. Maybe that’s part of why Shiro’s going to Florida. Maybe. Maybe.  

At least here, in the shack with the creaking screen door, nothing will leave him unless he leaves it first.

He sets the photo strips aside and presses the pencil to the next blank page of the notebook. He sinks deeper into the couch, letting the dust coat his clothes, and imagines an enormous mechanical lion careening towards the earth, ready to pick him up and take him somewhere he doesn’t have to think. He just has a sword, and that’s the pinnacle of existence.

 

. . .

 

When he breathes in deep, the air brings with it a smattering of dust that coats his throat and forces a cough through his lips. Keith frowns and turns over, but his neck cricks from the tough arm rest cradling it. Shit, he isn’t in bed, is he?

He cracks open an eye, expecting a too-small room with a laptop, still open, on the desk. Instead, grimy wooden walls, shelves of memorabilia, and an empty two-cabinet kitchen meet him.

Oh. He didn’t even sleep on the shack’s bed. He just passed out on the couch, the notebook fallen to the floor as he tossed in the night. He rubs at his eyes and forces himself upright. When he reaches down for the notebook, he spots the corner of one of the photo strips peeking out from underneath the pages.

Right. Those. He leaves the notebook on the floor.

When he stands up, his stomach growls, and he belatedly realizes he hasn’t eaten since about noon yesterday. Maybe he can drive into town and find something at that roadside burger place. Established 1976, with a corner booth where his dad taught him how to blow the papers off straws until it hit him right in the face.

Disappointingly, Keith didn’t become a paladin overnight, so he doesn’t have an endless supply of food goo coming out of a hose, which is much more practical and efficient than scouring for food every day.

Burgers and pie it is. He picks up his notebook, tucks the photo strips back into the front cover, and leaves.

 

. . .

 

“He didn’t come home,” Lance says into the receiver of his cell phone. “He’s still not here. We need to go out and find him, Shiro. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the receiver, a sigh where Lance feels momentarily guilty for waking Shiro up at seven in the morning.

“Thanks for calling, Lance,” he says. “Stay there, alright? I know where he is.”

“Where is he? Can I come? He might listen to me—”

“We’ll just stick to the plan for tomorrow. I’ll have him back in time, so don’t cancel it.”

“Okay…Okay, Shiro. Thank you.”

Shiro hangs up, leaving Lance alone to his thoughts, pacing tear marks into the middle of the living room.

“It sounds like Shiro’s got it under control,” Hunk says.

“I can’t just stand here and do nothing, Hunk. He’s out there, somewhere, and Shiro won’t tell me about it!”

“But Shiro knows where he is!”

“And I don’t! What do I do, Hunk? There’s gotta be a clue somewhere. Someone who knows something I don’t.”

Hunk bites his nails to the nubs on the futon, watching Lance pace. Every fiber of Lance’s being tremble with dread, with the idea something _bad_ might have happened to Keith. What if he’s not where Shiro thinks he is? Maybe Lance should have told him he loves him sooner. Then he wouldn’t have made whatever stupid and probably reckless decision he made. Maybe—

“I hope we don’t have to pay the deposit for this carpet,” Hunk mumbles.

“Who else knows him, Hunk?”

“I don’t know. Shiro’s fiancé? His teachers?”

His teachers. Professor Coran!

Lance hops into his shoes before he knows what he’s doing. “I’ll be right back.”

“What are you doing?” Hunk asks nervously.

“I don’t know. If I’m not finding him, maybe I’ll just feel like I’m doing something. I don’t know!”

And with that, Lance is out the door.

 

. . .

 

He has to check a map of the school and the teacher directory to know where the hell Professor Coran’s office is, but eventually he finds it, hidden at the end of a long hallway in the English department. It must be somewhere Keith comes a lot, but Lance has never stepped foot in the direction of the building.

As luck would have it, it’s still Coran’s office hours. He tentatively knocks on the door, and someone inside yells, “Come on in!”

The door creaks open, and Lance walks into an office unlike any he’s ever been in. There’s a massive mahogany desk littered with bobbleheads and instruments he can’t even begin to decipher. The chair on one side is a folding chair from what must be the cafeteria, and the other is a high-backed mustard number. The chair’s turned around, and the only thing Lance can see of Professor Coran is his wing-tipped Oxford shoes wiggling against the wall.

“Uh, Professor Coran?” Lance asks.

“Yes, who is it? If you’re Kinkade from Poetry 102, your understanding of meter is subpar at best and I do offer another lecture so you may learn again.”

“Um, I’m not. Although that’s super cool of you, Professor.”

“Well, who is it, then?”

The mustard chair swivels around, and Lance comes face to face with a man twirling a bright orange mustache with vigor.

“I’m not a student. The name’s Lance McClain, and I’m actually…” Now that he’s here, he doesn’t even know what the fuck he wants to ask.

“Ah, Lance,” he hums. “ _The name’s_ Coran. And you are here about Keith.”

“I’m…yes? Yes, yes I am. How did you know?”

“Sit, my boy,” Coran says.

Not knowing what else to do, Lance sits on the folding chair. Coran swivels around again, and Lance hears him rummage through bins.

“Ah, here it is! You’d think Keith Kogane would go for a more interesting file receptacle, but the only interesting thing about him is his mind.”

When he turns back around, he slides something across the desk. It’s a USB stick, tiny, black, and inconspicuous.

“What’s this for?”

“That’s his completed manuscript,” Coran says. “He delivered it in a haste yesterday, though it’s not up to me to truly divulge the nature of our impromptu meeting. I’ve already copied the files to my computer, so you might find this more useful than I do at the moment.”

“Why?”

“Well, did he tell you he completed his homework?”

“Fixing the romance? Well, yeah, he was really excited about it,” Lance says.

Coran peers at him. “Should you read his novel, things might be a little clearer for you. Oh, and tell your small green friend it was a pleasure to work for her.”

Then he whirls the chair around, and Lance stares at the back of it. Then the USB.

“Uhh.”

Coran turns one more time, throws Lance a wink, and disappears behind the high back.

And slowly, Lance reaches for the USB and cradles it in the palm of his hand like a baby. Keith’s baby…story baby.

“Thanks?”

“Off you go,” Coran says.

Right. Off he goes. Because now he has a novel to read.

 

. . .

 

It was really only a matter of time before Shiro found him.

He’s been back for an hour, thinking in endless circles about Lance, what he might be doing. He probably knows Keith is gone. Maybe he’s wondering where Keith is. Keith can only picture him laughing, musing at the idea that Keith fell in love with _him_ of all people. The wingman. The very person with the label “Don’t fall in love with me.”

It’s when he caves and takes out the photo strips again that he hears an uncharacteristic rumble outside. This far into the desert, nothing rumbles except the monsoon season.

Keith peeks out the blinds and scowls when he sees a black truck parking next to the saguaro. He’s told Shiro every time if he parks too close and accidentally knocks it over, he’ll be the one paying the fine. But, no, he insists on that as his parking spot.

Shiro should just leave Keith alone. Cut him off now and give him a little more time to heal before the next one comes along. But he climbs out of the truck, sunglasses and all, and Keith lets the blinds fall closed before he can see him.

The creak of the screen door and a knock on the door comes a few seconds later.

“Keith?” Shiro calls. “I can see your car, Keith. I know you’re here.”

Keith considers hiding out until Shiro leaves. But if he drove all this way, the guilt would gnaw at Keith to let him stay out there. Why won’t Shiro just leave him _alone?_

Shiro knocks again, loud and clear throughout the whole shack. With a frustrated growl, Keith stomps over to the door and throws it open.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Keith,” Shiro interrupts. And he looks so fucking worried Keith stops short. Shiro steps over the threshold and throws his arm around him.

It stuns Keith frozen, arms at his sides, as Shiro hugs him.

“You’re alive,” he sighs, tightening his grip. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

“Um,” Keith stutters.

Shiro finally pulls back, holding Keith at arms length as he studies Keith’s face. He flinches uneasily.

“What happened, Keith?” he asks. “Why did you come back here?”

Keith crosses his arms and shrugs, looking resolutely away. Shiro only sighs again, this time with an edge of exasperation.

“You didn’t have to come,” Keith says.

“Maybe if you kept your phone turned on and told me where you were going. But you didn’t, so yes, as your brother, I had to come.”

Shiro pushes past Keith into the rest of the shack, looking around at the notebooks scattered on the floor, the only thing really moved around inside since Keith got here.

“Look at this place,” he mutters. “And you probably didn’t bring a duster with you.”

He turns around until he faces Keith again, and Keith forces himself to look away again.

“What happened, Keith?”

He can’t say it. He _won’t_ say it. He told himself he wouldn’t cry, and he hasn’t cried yet. But he knows if he says anything now, it’ll be like blowing the top off a fire hydrant. Flying straight into a Xanthorium crystal cluster.

“Keith,” Shiro tries again.

And, fuck, he hates himself, because he sniffles. It crawls up his throat, ugly and rash.

“We’ve worked through this before.” Shiro takes a step closer. “Remember? At bootcamp? When you punched that kid in the face?”

Keith laughs, but it comes out empty. “James Griffin.”

“Right, Griffin. You hated that kid. After what he said, I don’t blame you. But you can’t keep it inside you, Keith. You don’t have to go through it alone. You haven’t had to since the day you moved into my home.”

Shiro takes a step closer. Keith sniffles again.

When he speaks, his voice cracks.

“Everyone leaves, Shiro,” he whispers. “Everyone leaves.”

“Keith—”

“You were wrong.” He clears his throat. “Lance is still in love with Allura. So, he doesn’t lo-like me.”

Shiro’s worried expression morphs into confusion. “What? No, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, it’s what’s happened,” Keith shrugs. “I heard it. I took your advice and I went to go tell him, but when I found him he was with Allura. I overheard him say he’s still in love with her.”

“Are…are you sure?”

Pitifully, Keith nods. He would never _lie_ about that. Not when it leaves him feeling like an absolute pile of embarrassed shit. Not when it leaves him hollow.

“It’s fine. He can love whoever he wants. Just because _I_ love him doesn’t mean he has to love me back. But just once—” He hiccups and furiously scrubs away a stray tear. “Just once, I want someone to stay.”

“Keith,” Shiro says, like he’s said a million times. Then he’s stepping forward again, wrapping an arm around Keith’s back, and Keith lets himself cry.

It’s mortifying. He’s probably wetting Shiro’s favorite shirt.

“I’m here,” Shiro whispers. _But you’re leaving._ “I’m here.”

Keith’s insides are raw, screaming with protest as he sobs into Shiro’s shirt, off time with the hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. He’s probably crying about everything. From his Mom, who left without a note of goodbye, to Lance, who he didn’t even notice leaving until after, when all the pieces snapped together.

Allura’s constant calls. How often Lance mentions her. Allura said he’s a good kisser to get Keith off his back, didn’t she? She knows? They must hate him. Pidge and Hunk, too. They probably know, and now they can see Keith for who he truly is. Who he’s always suspected himself to be. Just the kind of person who’s better off alone. He has himself, and he has _Voltron_. That’s just him.

He’s gotten everything wrong, so wrong. He’s embarrassed, hopeless, and just fucking pathetic.

 _Why_ is Shiro _here?_

By the time Keith’s cries peter out, trickling into watery hiccups pressed into damp fabric, he feels limp with exhaustion.  Shiro leads him gently to the couch, and he collapses against the stiff cushions with barely a thought.

They sit like that for a while, in silence. The tracks dry stick and uncomfortable down Keith’s cheeks and neck, and the collar of his shirt feels damp.

“I’m sorry,” Keith finally rasps.

“No, I am,” Shiro says. “I should have paid better attention. I knew making new friends is difficult for you, and I didn’t take that into consideration.”

“Shiro—”

“And I _knew_ that moving to Florida would be hard on you. Will be. We’ve become brothers, through everything. Making sure you had a stable home, somewhere to be and just be yourself, is a top priority for me. And in a way, moving takes that away from you.”

Keith rubs at the tracks on his cheek and doesn’t interrupt again.

“I was over the moon when you began to find a new stability in Hunk, Lance, and Pidge. And Allura. I thought it might work out. You began to do so many things you’ve never done before. Dates, impromptu trips. I’ve never seen you smile so much. But falling in love when it’s not reciprocated complicates things, doesn’t it?”

Stiffly, Keith nods.

“No matter what, he’s still your friend,” Shiro says.

And to that, he shakes his head.

“I mess it up. They’ve been best friends for so long. I’m just an out-of-place addition. And now they probably know about—that I love Lance, and it’ll be awkward.”

“Is that really what you believe?” Shiro asks.

Keith takes a deep, stuttering breath. “I—I don’t know.”

“Keith, look at me.” Reluctantly, he does, and he sees Shiro’s stern eyes, the same expression that made so many troubled teenagers obey him at bootcamp. “If there’s something I know, I know the three of them and Allura care about you deeply. You’re never as expendable as you think you are. They are not your mother, nor are they the Coopers, or the McMillans, or the Hughes.  They’re your friends, through and through, and they’re worrying themselves sick wondering where you are right now.”

“I’m fine,” Keith says.

“I can count the number of times I’ve seen you cry on one hand. You’re not fine.”

Keith just shrugs lamely. Before he can make another excuse, Shiro pulls out his phone and turns the screen around to Keith.

“Do you see my call history?” he asks. “Lance has called me five times since you left. He’s about half a second away from calling the police and searching through every ASU dumpster for your body.”

Guilt scratches at his insides again. He can’t do anything right.

“I can’t face him,” he says, so soft it’s barely audible.

Shiro’s expression softens. “It’s okay to feel that way. But I have to bring you home. You can’t stay in your head forever.”

Keith’s face screws up and his chest bangs at the very idea of going back into that apartment.

“Do you want to stay with me for now?” Shiro offers. Keith nods. “We can do that.”

“Can I go with you to Florida?” Keith asks.

With a little hesitation, Shiro says, “We can do that too. But, Keith, I need you to know.”

Something in his voice makes Keith glance up again, and this time, he finds affection and determination in every line of Shiro’s face, from the furrow of his brow to the old scar stretching over the bridge of his nose.

“I will never leave you. No matter where I am. I will never, ever leave you alone. I love you, and I believe in you. I always have. That will never change.”

Oh, fuck. He doesn’t want to cry again. But it’s a battle he’s never been destined to win as Shiro pulls him into one last hug.

“You deserve that, Keith. You deserve a family.”

“O-okay,” Keith hiccups.

“And you deserve someone who loves you like you love Lance.”

He nods jerkily into Shiro’s shirt.

“Let’s go home.”

 

. . .

 

Lance’s eyes sting from staring at a screen for hours on end. He’s never been one for reading; his attention wanders too much to fully absorb a novel like he does a movie. But he’s almost to the end, and he’s determined to finish now.

Now that he’s reading the book, it’s mind boggling how alike the characters are to Keith’s friends. Whether Keith’s noticed it or not, each one of them is present. Characters Lance is sure Keith created long before he knew any of them have morphed into them. Pidge for green. Hunk for yellow.

Lance for blue and Keith for red.

And in this book that Coran handed him, unlike what Keith’s complained to him about before, the red and blue paladins are a _thing._

He scrolls fervently back up the document for about the hundredth time to reread his favorite passage. The blue paladin, being the dazzling hero he is, saves everyone’s asses while completely passed out from an explosion in the Castle of Lions. And afterward, while he’s all loopy, the red paladin takes his hand.

_The blue paladin smiles shakily as he grasps the red paladin’s hand._

_“We did it,” he rasps. “We are a good team.”_

_The red paladin smiles in return._

Motherfucking Keith and his motherfucking emotionless face, and then he turns around and makes you feel all these _feelings_ about characters. Not good at romance, Lance’s ass. They were made for each other!

And that sentiment echoes through his mind, again and again. It makes him giddy, all encompassing. It terrifies him, in every joint. Is this what Keith thinks about him?

“Knock, knock,” a melodic voice hums, jerking Lance out of rereading the passage again. He looks up, and Allura peers inside his room. “Hunk let me in. Are you alright?”

“Shiro called us back,” he says. “Keith is safe, but he’s staying at Shiro’s. I don’t know if he’s okay, or if he’s avoiding me, or if he somehow found out I have the biggest, fattest crush on him and hates me for it, and I’m going so crazy not being able to do anything that I’m actually reading a book.”

“Which one?” she asks, opening his door fully to step into the room.

Lance shuffles over on his bed and pats the space beside him, and Allura perches on the edge.

“ _Voltron: Legendary Defenders._ ”

“I’ve only heard good things.”

“That’s because it’s blowing my mind right now. Keith wrote this. He wrote it, Allura.”

“Mhm.”

“My major’s not even plot important, and he wrote a whole ass book about a giant robot lion who turns into a man. I’m so proud of him.”

She smiles fondly and leans against the wall, settling her legs primly over the bedspread.

“You’re worried about him.”

“I’ve just never felt like this before. Ever.”

“Ever?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I. Holy shit, I feel like an idiot. I talk all this smack about having fifty crushes, going on dates all the time, flirting with every cute person at the bar. You know how many dates I’ve been on this semester, Allura?”

“How many?”

“None. None! I’ve been dry as hell. Because every time I look at someone, I think, gee, they don’t look like they want to murder me on the spot. I’m not into it. They don’t understand me like Keith, they’re not as unbelievably attractive as Keith, they don’t look at me like Keith looked at me when I gave him that stuffed red lion. Like, like I mean something to him.” The very same lion cradled in his arms. The one he found in the trash can. Lance sighs. “What if I lost my chance?”

“These things mostly work out,” Allura says. “I won’t break my promise of confidentiality to Keith, but I can assure you. Both of you are complete and utter idiots.”

“Rude!” Lance gasps.

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, Lance,” she continues. And then, in her posh British accent, “You need to get your shit together.”

“Allura!”

She shifts on the bed, sitting up again and facing him, her face illuminated with the blue glow of the laptop screen.

“You are such an incredible romantic, Lance. All you’ve ever wanted is someone to share that with. We were fine, but I was never that person for you. But, Lance, _you_ are that person for Keith, and in return, he is for you. I hate to see you give up so easily.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Lance says helplessly.

“Then think of something,” Allura replies. “You’re always the man with a plan. I’m sure you can come up with some grand romantic gesture. No boom box, please.”

Lance chews his lip, staring at the screen.

“I dunno…I—”

A ring cuts through his words. Lance scrambles for his phone. _Tall and Broad is calling…_

“Shiro?” he answers.

“Hey, Lance. I’m sorry it’s so late. Keith just finally passed out, so this is the first time I’ve been able to step away for more than a moment.”

“All cool, man! What’s up? Is he okay?”

“He will be, but he won’t like me for what I’m about to say.”

Sparks of anxiety flare up, and Lance braces himself for it. “And, uh, what is that?”

“Keith told me he overheard you talking to Allura yesterday. He said you told Allura you’re still in love with her. Is that true?”

Lance gapes. “He said _what?”_

“What? What is Shiro saying?” Allura hisses.

“I’m not in love with Allura! Like, at this point I don’t even know if I’ve ever been!” Allura’s mouth pinches into a frown and she slaps his shoulder. “ _Ow._ ”

“Ow?” Shiro repeats.

“Allura and I were talking about Keith, I swear on every single pair of sneakers I own. I was—practicing what I wanted to say to him. I didn’t even know he was at the coffee shop.”

“You were practicing…”

“How to tell Keith I’m in love with _him._ Er, with your permission, duh. Holy shit.”

Silence on the other end. Allura stares at him with her widest eyes, mouthing, _Did he hear that? How did he hear that?_

“I _was_ right,” Shiro finally says. And Lance wants to _scream._ None of this makes sense! “He told you Adam and I are moving to Florida, right?”

“Y-yes,” Lance forces out.

“I offered him a chance to come with. Unless you act quickly, he’ll be moving with us in about two weeks.

“I—okay. Yes, sir. Shiro.”

“Good, Lance. Get some rest.”

In complete and utter shock, Lance lets the phone drop onto the bed. He looks at Allura.

“I need a grand romantic gesture,” he breathes. “I need to call Pidge.”

 

. . .                                                            

 

Keith steps out of the shower at Shiro and Adam’s. He wouldn’t have, but Adam refused to host a dirty Keith, no matter how much he cares about him. So here Keith is, a full 24 hours after Shiro forced him to drive home, and on day three of avoiding Lance like the plague.

He misses Lance. He can’t believe he never counted himself as lucky to have Lance’s face be one of the first things he wakes up to. It’s like a criminal offense, not seeing him every day.

 _Whatever._ He should get used to it. Lance won’t always be there for him. He needs to move on.

No matter how much that thought aches in his chest. Lance is, at the very most, his friend. He just doesn’t know where along this path he became so dependent on his friends that the prospect of being alone again in Florida physically hurts.

Adam passes by the ajar bathroom door. “Did you dry your hair?”

“No, why do you care?”

“Might be a good idea,” he hums, and he pads quietly down the hall again.

Alright. Keith narrows his eyes. That’s strange.

He dries his hair anyway and changes into extra clothes he left at the apartment a while ago. Shiro handed them to him, actually, and reminded him, “Remember, Keith. You’re a paladin of Voltron.”

…He’s only ever heard Hunk and Pidge say that before.

He steps over the boxes in the living room, loathing the idea of doing homework here all night but resigned to his fate anyway. Shiro left a while ago and wouldn’t say why, and Adam’s busy parsing through his clothes for donations.

But just as he reaches for his notebook, the doorbell begins ringing incessantly.

“Adam!” Keith yells.

“I’m busy! Your brother owns too many shirts!” Adam yells back.

“He’s your fiancé,” Keith grumbles, but he stomps over to the door anyway and opens it.

What he doesn’t expect to see on the other side is a furious Pidge, glaring at him before he even says a word.

“Pidge?”

“I don’t have any time or energy for sappy monologues like the rest of you guys,” she says. “You’re coming with me whether you like it or not. Let’s go.”

Seeing Pidge again, in the flesh, is like a shot to Keith’s system. Fuck, he must have missed her, too.

“Put your shoes on!” she snaps.

“Fine! Fine, you gremlin.”

He only barely zips up his boots before Pidge yanks him out of the apartment.

“I’m not walking all the way back to the lab, so you’re driving us,” she demands.

“Why—”

“And you’re _not_ going to talk, because if you talk, it’ll remind me that I missed your stupid voice, and I can’t handle that right now.”

Bewildered and a little frightened, Keith shuts up.

True to her word, they don’t speak as they arrive at the Holt lab. Pidge only stops dragging him when he complains about her tight grip, and then she stays by his side like she’s afraid he’ll…leave, or something, if she walks ahead.

When they reach the lab door, she stops and faces him.

“Maybe this’ll get it through your thick skull how important you are to us,” she says.

And she throws open the door.

Keith doesn’t know what the fuck to expect. But it’s not this.

In the center of the work room is a pedestal, lit by a spotlight someone had jerry-rigged to the ceiling. And standing on the pedestal is Voltron.

Literally Voltron. Voltron, Keith’s robot. Even from the door, Keith can tell it’s _his robot._

And as he creeps forward, entranced, he can make out each lion. The left leg is yellow, the right, blue. The right arm is red, and the left is green, complete with the little black shield and everything. Even the Black Lion is there, but fully formed. Keith can see the stoic expression of Voltron himself. And on the back are motherfucking wings, red and blue, the ones that form shield.

It’s all there, down to the chips in the paint. It’s Voltron.

“Pidge?” he whispers, voice shaking. He reaches out and touches a little yellow horn, just to make sure this thing is real and not a figment of his imagination like everything else. It’s metal. It’s cold. It’s Voltron.

“It wasn’t just me,” she says from somewhere behind him. In a flash, the spotlight powers down and the lab lights go up. Keith looks up to find—

Pidge, Hunk, Shiro, Allura, even Professor Coran. And Lance. Lance. Lance is here.

Hunk steps forward from the line and wraps Keith in a hug, as large and enveloping as he’s ever been. It forces him to tear his eyes away from Lance’s uncharacteristically shy expression. Why is he here? Why are they all here?

“I’m so glad you’re back,” he murmurs into Keith’s shoulder. “I’m sorry we didn’t pick up your calls. I’d like to think we had a good reason, but we didn’t. We’ll never be too busy to talk to you.”

“Um.”

He pulls back and holds out something in his palm. It’s a remote, by the looks of it, with a variety of colored buttons.

“There’s a few more surprises,” he says. “First, Professor Coran painted figurines.”

Coran and Allura step up beside Hunk and each take something out from behind their backs. True to Hunk’s word, they’re little figurines in the likeness of the two of them but wearing unbelievably Altean uniforms. Allura beams, Coran twirls his mustache, and they both set the figurines down on the pedestal.

“I hope I did your wild imagination justice, Keith,” Coran says.

All Keith can do is slowly nod.

“Okay, second surprise, and personally, this one’s my favorite. Take this.” He presses the remote into Keith’s hand. “Each color corresponds with a character. So, press the yellow button.”

A tinny voice emanates from the Yellow Lion, too similar to Hunk’s, and yells, “ _I’m a leg!”_

Hunk laughs. “Yes! It worked! Now do pink!”

“ _Paladins, focus!”_ He clicks it again. “ _I believe in you, paladins! Let fear be your guide! Form Voltron!”_

He presses the rest of the buttons at Hunk’s direction.

“ _Curse my short arms!” “Stop touching my equipment!”_ Pidge beams proudly at her own voice.

 _“Patience yields focus.” “Go, be great.”_ Even Shiro smiles here, because Keith remembers when he said that. It really _does_ make a good black paladin quote.

_“I think I’m broken.”_

“Ah, my missed career as an actor,” Coran laments.

All their voices slot into place perfectly, right into the characters he’s imagined since he was a kid. But they’re not just his characters, not after this. He plays the green button again, and he recognizes that the green paladin never had comically short arms before he watched Pidge drag a chair over to the kitchenette to grab a mug from the cabinet. The others, too. It’s all of them.

All their relationships, their experiences, somehow made it into the final draft of _Voltron._ And with their voices, the characters are, in a way, theirs, too.

Keith hovers over the last two buttons, then glances at Lance.

“Play blue, Keith,” Hunk says.

He lets his thumb hover over the blue button, then presses.

_“They called me ‘The Tailor’ because of how I thread the needle.” “Oh, I’d rcognize that mullet anywhere!”_

“Click it again.”

_“I say ‘Vol’, you say ‘Tron!’”_

“…One more time.”

From his spot, Lance hops from foot to foot, looking sort of like he wants to be anywhere else but here.

Keith presses the blue button one more time.

“ _Is this thing on?”_

In the background, a muffled, “ _Yeah, the red light means it’s recording.”_

 _“Right, awesome, totally knew that.”_ Some rustling. Keith stares at Lance, and Lance inhales sharply and looks away. “ _I wrote a script, but it quiznaking sucks. Heh, I think I used that right. Um, I just want to tell you I’m the world’s shittiest wingman. I might have irresistible pick-up lines, but that doesn’t matter at all when I want to say this:_

_“Keith, I wanted to be your wingman so I could spend more time with you. I didn’t give a crap about doing your laundry. I just…knew I wanted to be your friend, even if you didn’t want to be mine. And I think, ever since then, I’ve been slowly falling in love with you.”_

Another pause and a labored breath.

“ _That’s it?”_ Pidge says in the background.

 _“And you’re important. Not just to me, although you’re_ really _important to me, but to all of us. You’re a part of our team, Keith. Don’t even try to leave again, you hear me? Because I’m actually so mad, and worried, and—”_

_“Alright, I think you’re done.”_

_“And one more thing! We are a good te—”_

The audio cuts off, bathing the lab in silence. Finally, finally, Lance looks up again and meets Keith’s eyes. Keith can’t even say anything. He just stares, because Lance is here, and he looks unearthly beautiful under the fluorescent lab lights, and Keith loves him. He does.

“Can you say something?” Lance says, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. “I know you have a whole stoic and cool shtick going on, but I’d really appreciate it if you would. And you don’t have to say it back. I just, you thought I was telling it to Allura, but--”

“Lance.”

“—I was really just practicing what I wanted to tell _you_ , because you make me—”

“ _Lance._ ”

He shuts his mouth, eyes still wide and pleading.

And Keith can’t just leave him floundering, can he? So, he musters up every ounce of courage, fights every instinct to flee, and says, “I wanted to tell you you were the one who helped my fix the romance, that night. Every moment I spent thinking it was the princess and the blue paladin, it was actually the red and blue paladins. Just like…” His eyes widen. “We’re idiots.

A small smile hesitantly tugs at the corners of Lance’s lips.

“We’re idiots,” he confirms.

“I wanted to kiss you in the photo booth.”

Keith almost trips over his words, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t run away, and he doesn’t even die of shock as Lance walks forward until they stand only inches away from each other. It’s so familiar, yet so foreign. Keith can’t wait to learn it all.

“Can I kiss you now?” Lance asks in a whisper.

“What, no pick-up line?” Keith smirks.

“No way, Mullet. Those are reserved for the hot alien babes.”

But Lance grins, and he tucks a lock of hair behind Keith’s ear, and he leans in.

Keith registers two things at once: Lance’s chapstick-soft lips against his, and the cheer that goes up around the circle of Keith’s friends and family.

“Woo! We’re paladins of Voltron!” Pidge screeches.

“I get to be the leg!”

And other things, but they don’t register as Keith wraps his arms around Lance’s shoulders. He’s wanted this for _so long,_ and now he gets it. Yesterday he was halfway to Tucson, and now he’s kissing Lance. And Lance is kissing him.

When they part, Keith laments the loss, but he’s fine burying his head in the crook of Lance’s neck and breathing in the scent there. Like coconut, like his body wash. Keith never wants to let go.

“Okay, okay, break it up. There’s still one more surprise!” Hunk says.

Reluctantly, he does, but he’s so giddy it hardly matters. When he turns around, Hunk waves around a microphone.

“You get to record the red paladin’s audio!”

Keith knows pretty much exactly what he wants to say. It’s not really in character, but he doesn’t give a shit.

_“I think I’m falling for you, too, cargo pilot.”_

 

. . .

 

Allura and Hunk are worse wingmen than Lance. That’s what he learns in the wake of the Voltron robot.

Someone, probably Hunk, orders Chinese take-out to the lab, and they pull together a bunch of folding chairs to talk through mouthfuls of orange chicken. It’s the most relaxing moment Lance’s had since frantically calling Pidge after striking an idea and pleading to record another audio clip for the Blue Lion.

He settles his chair right next to Keith’s, because he’s allowed to, and Keith knows, and Keith loves him _back._

No thanks to Allura and Hunk.

“It was supposed to be a blind date between you and Lance,” Allura says with a pout. “Though I guess I’m not as good at romantic meddling as I thought I was.”

“Just stick to your International Relations diplomacy stuff,” Lance says, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder.

“And talking to me about how Lance kisses?” Keith asks.

“It was to make _you_ think about kissing him.”

Keith purses his lips, then shrugs. “I guess it worked.”

“Not how I wanted it to!” Allura cries.

They lapse into comfortable silence. Lance forgoes any semblance of politeness and watches as Keith stares around the circle, from his friends to the cool ass Voltron robot. When his gaze land on Lance himself, it softens. For all his rough exterior, pride rushes through Lance that he can get these affectionate looks. He’s had them for a while, he realizes, but now he can really appreciate them for what they are.

Tiny admissions of safety, vulnerability, and a little bit of love.

As Hunk distracts Keith with a guilty confession about little white lies to obtain descriptions of the robot, Lance thinks yeah, God, he can get fucking used to this.

It’s all new, and even newer to Keith, but Lance is determined to make it work long enough that eventually, loving Keith is as natural as their friendship, and long beyond that. Long enough that Keith’s is the face he wakes up to, that when the lease is up, maybe they move together. That Keith feels comfortable enough to meet Lance’s family, and Keith can tell Lance all about his.

He’s wanted it so badly for so long, and now it’s his, half a foot away. He can’t help but hook an ankle around Keith’s, just to remind himself Keith is real and warm.

He looks up, slightly startled at the touch.

“I missed you,” Lance says.

It’s Keith who rests a palm against Lance’s bouncing knee.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs. He pauses, then hesitantly says, “What do we do now?”

Lance leans in close, admiring the way Keith’s hair curls over his ear. “If you’ll let me, I take you out on a true date. Mostly, though, I just really want to kiss you again.”

“We can do that.” He gathers his take-out trash and jumps to his feet. “I’m tired. Let’s go home.”

The whole group laughs as Keith’s cheeks begin to burn. Still, everyone picks up after themselves and puts away the folding chairs. As they leave, Pidge flicks the lights off.

On the last light, Voltron stands illuminated on the pedestal, a proud statue of metal and color. Keith looks back at it, pride lingering on the soft curve of his lips. It must look like a notebook doodle come to life.

Pidge hits the light switch, and darkness floods the lab. As they trudge up the stairs, Lance snakes his arm around Keith’s waist. Keith melts into the touch, sending a flurry of emotions through Lance’s chest.

Yeah, they all make downright atrocious wingmen. But as he leans in to press a kiss to Keith’s cheek like he’s wanted to do since Keith refused to admit he’s charming, he guesses they got there alright in the end.

 

. . .

 

“I’ve reviewed your work in my class for this semester, from the manuscript to your participation in workshops and your demonstration of storytelling knowledge,” Coran says, flipping through a packet of papers taken out of a manila folder. “The lions have grown on me. Become part of my quintessence.”

Keith wrinkles his nose. That’s not really how quintessence works, but he’ll go with it. He taps his foot impatiently, waiting for his professor to continue.

“Have you signed up for classes next semester?” he asks.

“Yes,” Keith confirms. “I have you again.”

“Good! Good, that’s marvelous.” He reaches the end of the packet, filled with little red notes, and tucks it back into the manila folder. “You’ve passed my class beyond my expectations. It’s been quite like fighting a weezlelump uphill the whole semester, but you got there in the end.”

“Cool. Thanks?” That sounds like a good thing, right? With the way Coran smiles broadly, it must be a good thing.

“I look forward to reading more of your work. What tickles me the most is the prospect of picking _Voltron: Legendary Defenders_ off the shelf. Mark my words, Keith. That will happen!”

Keith ducks his head to hide his blush, the thrill of Coran’s words running through him. Yeah, he’d really like that. That’s the goal.

“Shall I see you next semester?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays at noon,” Keith replies.

Coran nods, then sits up like he’ll swivel his chair around.

“Uh, I just have a question before I go.”

He raises an eyebrow and tugs at the end of his mustache.

“I was just wondering,” Keith starts, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks for the right question. “Why? I mean, I think I know why. But why?”

“Ah, well.” Something mischievous glints in Coran’s eyes. “I have read thousands of my students’ stories, and through their work, I understand what makes each student tick. Including you. When I read _Voltron_ , I immediately connected the red paladin to you. I knew, if you were anything like him, you need a small push to get outside the boundaries of your own head.”

“So, you wanted to trick me into going outside?”

“Into _living._ Experiencing the abundance of joy and hardships life has to offer. If you never fell in love, then the companionship of your friends, the novelty of new places and ideas.”

Keith nods, just a little.

“The advice ‘write what you know’ is not always true. You don’t know what it’s like to be a 10,000-year-old advisor to a princess…although I cannot deny I have experience in that area,” he continues. “But your characters, their relationships, and their problems come from your heart and what you know.”

“I guess I had to know what a romance feels like to write one,” Keith sighs. His phone buzzes against his thigh, and he staunchly ignores it.

“More to understand the vitality of a well-done, complex romance to a story as a core understanding of human behavior. It’s not all about fight scenes and robots,” Coran amends. “And for yourself, Keith. To live a life, and to live it in the company and support of your loved ones. The red paladin found his on the Castleship, and you, Keith, have found it here.”

He has, hasn’t he? He’s found it in Lance. In Hunk, Pidge, Allura. In Shiro.

“I think I owe Lance for that one,” he all but whispers.

“Don’t discredit yourself, my boy.” Coran tucks the manila folder away and kicks his feet up onto the desk. “Speaking of Lance. What’s all this yammering on your phone?”

“Oh, that’s, uh, him,” Keith says, feeling the corners of his lips tug. “He planned our first date. I have to get ready after this.”

“How exciting! Ah, I remember my college dates. Mind you, they weren’t dates as much as excuses to shimmy in the back seats of cars, but—”

“Yeah, no thanks, Coran,” Keith interrupts. He stands up, shouldering his backpack and finally digging his phone out of his pocket to glance at it. Like he thought, Lance, with reminders that he won’t be home, because he wants to pick Keith up, and he can’t do that when they already live together, can he?

“Off you go, then!” Coran waves him off and whirls the chair around.

So Keith rolls his eyes to hide his smile and goes.

 

. . .

 

“Look at you, you clean up nice for a college student,” Lance whistles when Keith opens the door to their dorm.

He looks breathtaking, standing there in a blue button up he might have ironed, clutching a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a stuffed red lion in the other. Keith’s breath catches as his gaze trails over Lance—his _date_ —up to his soft smile, the slope of his nose, and his sparkling blue eyes. Even his hair is styled, though it doesn’t look much different than normal.

“This feels stupid,” Keith complains, tugging at the cuffs of his own dress shirt.

“I want to do it right! And I can’t do it right if we already live together,” Lance says. He holds out the bouquet. “Purple flowers, like red and blue mixed. Clever, right?”

Okay, a little. But Keith won’t tell him that. Instead, he shakes his head and takes it, marveling at the bunches of petals three boys in a college dorm will murder in a day, tops.

Lance holds out the lion, too. Guilt flashes through Keith for throwing it out in his haste to get out. But Lance found it, and he cradles it now.

“I want you to keep it,” Keith says, cupping Lance’s hand and pushing it gently back.

“No way, Keith. It’s your lion. And if I’m the reason it’s here in the first place, I want it to be yours,” Lance protests.

Keith bites back a smile. Then, he chances a glance at Lance’s own grinning face, and he lets go of his bottom lip. Half-reluctantly, he takes the lion.

“Yeah, whatever, for now,” he says. “But I’m planning out book three of _Voltron,_ and that might change.”

“What!” Lance gasps. “No! I like them like they are!”

Keith shrugs nonchalantly and leads Lance back into the dorm. They scrounge for an empty beer bottle for the flowers and admire their handiwork. Then, Lance holds out his hand.

“Shall we?” he asks with a waggle of his eyebrows. “It’s time for an actual date you’ll like. No red alerts, no mistaking you for your brother, no flirting awkwardly with strangers at parties. Just me, you, and some milkshakes.”

“Yeah,” Keith replies, giddy with it. He flushes as he takes Lance’s hand, slotting their fingers together. Lance tugs him close.

“And if we get back before Hunk does, we might have time for a little mind melding, if you know what I’m saying,” he whispers into Keith’s ear.

“Oh, gross,” Keith retorts, but he snorts anyway, and Lance breaks out into a high, cackling laugh.

He leans down, laugh fading, and kisses Keith. Soft, insistent, then headier than it should be before the date’s even started. But who the fuck is Keith to complain?

Lance pulls away, blush dusting his brown skin. He clears his throat and says, “Now, remember, pupil Keith, to use this opportunity to show me all the skills you’ve learned. Do we need to run through the basics?”

“Maybe I need a refresher course. Will you teach me?” Keith hums with a smirk.

Lance narrows his eyes, then smiles slyly. “Nah, I think you’re good.” He tightens his grip on Keith’s hand. “We’ve done this all backwards, haven’t we? Confessing before kissing before a date.”

Maybe they have, but Keith doesn’t give a single shit. Lance swings their hands between them as they walk out of their dorm and Keith thinks this, right here, is where he’d like to be for a while. This feels like being in love.

 

. . .

 

_Voltron: Legendary Defenders_

_By Keith Kogane_

_For Hunk, Pidge, Allura, and Coran. For Shiro, my brother. For Lance, my fiancé. And for anyone who dreams of finding a robotic lion in a desert cave. Go, be great._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, thank you for reading!!! I've worked really hard over the past few days--and, honestly, the past year--to post this. Kudos, comments, bookmarks, and reblogs are literally the best and I already cherish you. It's also motivation for my chaptered [celebrity fake dating AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770052/chapters/36684069) and projects I look forward to posting.
> 
> Stop by my [Tumblr](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/) and message me about AIFTH and anything else! You can [reblog this fic post](https://voltronseatbelts.tumblr.com/post/184424970261/and-ill-form-the-heart), and the [Klance Pinefest post](https://klancepinefest.tumblr.com/post/184424550289/title-and-ill-form-the-heart-author-max)! Thank you again to the Pinefest for allowing me to explore this idea, finish it, and make so many friends in the process. Thank you!!!


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